z P. 164. Like the lone Albatross. The Albatross is said to sleep on the wing. aa P. 165. The murmur that springs. I met with this idea in an old English tale, which I am now unable to obtain, and quote from memory:-"The verie essence and, as it were, springe-heade and origine of all musiche is the verie pleasaunte sounde which the trees of the forest do make when they growe." hb P. 165. Have slept with the bee. The wild bee will not sleep in the shade if there be moonlight. The rhyme in this verse, as in one about sixty lines before, has an appearance of affectation. It is, however, imitated from Sir W. Scott, or rather from Claud Halcro-in whose mouth I admired its effect: O! were there an island, Tho' ever so wild, Where woman might smile, and ce P. 168. Apart from Heaven's Eternity-and yet how far from Hell! With the Arabians there is a medium between Heaven and Hell, where men suffer no punishment, but yet do not attain that tranquil and even happiness which they suppose to be characteristic of heavenly enjoyment. Un no rompido sueno- Libre de amor-de zelo De odio de esperanza de rezelo.-Luis Ponce de Leon. Sorrow is not excluded from "Al Aaraaf," but it is that sorrow which the living love to cherish for the dead, and which, in some minds, resembles the delirium of opium. The passionate excitement of Love and the buoyancy of spirit attendant upon intoxication are its less holy pleasuresthe price of which, to those souls who make choice of "Al Aaraaf" as their residence after life, is final death and annihilation. dd P. 168. Unguided Love hath fallen-mid "tears of perfect moan.” There be tears of perfect moan Wept for thee in Helicon.-Milton. ee P. 169. Was a proud temple called the Parthenon. It was entire in 1687-the most elevated spot in Athens. ff P. 170. Than e'en thy glowing bosom beats withal. Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows Than have the white breasts of the Queen of Love.-Marlowe. 58 P. 171. Failed, as my pennoned spirit leapt aloft. THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. N speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design to be either thorough or profound. While discussing, very much at random, the essentiality of what we call Poetry, my -principal purpose will be to cite for consideration, some few of those minor English or American poems which best suit my own taste, or which, upon my own fancy, have left the most definite impression. By "minor poems" I mean, of course, poems of little length. And here, in the beginning, permit me to say a few words in regard to a somewhat peculiar principle, which, whether rightfully or wrongfully, has always had its influence in my own critical estimate of the poem. I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the phrase," a long poem," is simply a flat contradiction in terms. I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch as it excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in the ratio |