The thoughts are few; the forms many; the large vocabulary or many coloured coat of the indegent unity. The savans are chatty and vain, but hold them hard to principle and definition, and they become mute and near sighted. What is motion? what is beauty? what is matter? what is life? what is force? Push them hard, and they will not be loquacious.They will come to Plato, Proclus, and Swedenborg. The invisible and imponderable is the sole fact. " Why changes not the violet earth into musk?"
What is the term of the everflowing metamorphosis? I do not know what are the stoppages, but I see that a devouring unity changes all into that which changes not.
The act of imagination is ever attended by pure delight. It infuses a certain volatility and intoxication into all nature. It has a flute which sets the atoms of our frame in a dance. Our indeterminate size is a delicious secret which it reveals to us. The mountains begin to dislimn, and float in the air. In the presence and conversation of a true poet, teeming with images to express his enlarging thought, his person his form, grows larger to our fascinated eyes. And thus begins that deification which all nations have made of their heroes in every kind - saints, poets, lawgivers, and warriors.
Imagination, - Whilst common-sense looks at things or visible nature as real and final facts, poetry, or the imagination which dictates it, is a second sight, looking through these, and using them as types or words for thoughts which they signify. Or is this belief a metaphysical whim of modern times, and quite too refined? On the contrary, it is as old as the human mind. Our best definition of poetry is one of the oldest sentences, and claims to come down to us from the Chaldaean Zoroaster, who wrote it thus;
" Poets are standing transporters, whose employment consists in speaking to the Father and to matter; in producing apparent imitations of unapparent natures, and inscribing things unapparent in the apparent fabrication of the world;" in other words, the world exists for thought: it is to make appear things which hide: mountains, crystals, plants, animals are seen; that which makes them is not seen; these then are "apparent copies of unapparent natures" Bacon expressed the same sense in his definition, " Poetry accomodates the shows of things to the desires of the mind;" and Swedenborg, when he said, " There is nothing existing in human thought, even though related to the most mysterious tenet of faith, but has combined with it a natural and sensous image." And again: " Names, countries, nations, and the like are not at all known to those who are in heaven, they have no idea of such things, but of the realities signified thereby." A symbol always stimulates the intellect: therefore is poetry ever the best reading. The very design of imagination is to domesticate us in another, in a celestial, nature.
This power is in the image because this power is in nature. It so effects, because it so is. All that is wondrous in Swedenborg is not his invention, but his extraordinary perception; that he was necessitated so to see. The world realizes the mind, Better than images is seen through them. The selection of the image is no more arbitrary than the power and significance of the image, the selection must follow fate. Poetry, if perfected, is the only verity; is the speech of man after the real, and not after the apparent.
Or shall we say that the imagination exists by sharing the ethereal currents? The poet contemplates the central identity, sees it undulate and roll this way and that, with divine flowings, through remotest things; and , following it, can detect essential resemblances in natures never before compared. He can class them so audaciously because he is sensible of the sweep of the celestial stream, from which nothing is exempt.
His own body is a fleeing apparition, his personality as fugitive as the trope he employs. In certain hours we can almost pass our hand through our own body. I think the use or value of poetry to be the suggestion it affords of the flux or fugaciousness of the poet. The mind delights in measuring itself thus with matter, with history, and flouting both. A thought, any thought, pressed, followed, opened, dwarfs matter, custom, and all but itself. But this second sight does not necessarily impair the primary or common - sense. Pindar and Dante, yes and gray and timeworn sentences of Zoroaster, may all be parsed, though we do not parse them. The poet has a logic, though it be subtile. He observes higher laws than he transgresses." Poetry must first be good sense, though it is something better."
This union of first and second sight reads nature to the end of delight and of moral use. Men are imaginative, but not overpowered by it to the exent of confounding its suggestions with external facts.
We live in both spheres, and must not mix them. Genius certifies its entire possession of its thought, by translating it into a fact which perfectly represents it, and is hereby education. Charles James Fox thought " Poetry the great refreshment of the human mind - the only thing, after all: that men first found out they had minds, by making and tasting poetry."
Man runs about restless and in pain when his condition or the obects about him do not fully match his thought, He wishes to be rich, to be old, to be young, that things may obey him. In the ocean, in fire, in the sky, in the forest, he finds facts adequate and as large as he. As his thoughts are deeper than he can fathom, so also are these. Tis easier to read Sanscrit, to decipher the arrowhead character, than to interpret these familiar sights. Tis even much to name them. Thus Thompson's "Seasons" and the best parts of many old and many new poets are simply enumerations by a person who felt the beauty of the common sights and sounds, without any attempt to draw a moral or affix a meaning.
The poet discovers that what men value as substances have a higher value as symbols; that Nature is the immense shadow of man...................to be continued
