and　depression。　After　a　passage　of　what　we　feel　to　be　true　poetry；　there
  follows；　inevitably；　a　passage　of　platitude　which　no　critical　prejudgment
  can　force　us　to　admire；　but　if；　upon　completing　the　work；　we　read　it
  again；　omitting　the　first　book　　that　is　to　say；　commencing　with　the
  second　　we　shall　be　surprised　at　now　finding　that　admirable　which　we
  before　condemned　　that　damnable　which　we　had　previously　so　much　admired。
  It　follows　from　all　this　that　the　ultimate；　aggregate；　or　absolute　effect
  of　even　the　best　epic　under　the　sun；　is　a　nullity：　　and　this　is
  precisely　the　fact。
  In　regard　to　the　Iliad；　we　have；　if　not　positive　proof；　at　least　very
  good　reason　for　believing　it　intended　as　a　series　of　lyrics；　but；　granting
  the　epic　intention；　I　can　say　only　that　the　work　is　based　in　an　imperfect
  sense　of　art。　The　modem　epic　is；　of　the　supposititious　ancient　model；　but
  an　inconsiderate　and　blindfold　imitation。　But　the　day　of　these　artistic
  anomalies　is　over。　If；　at　any　time；　any　very　long　poem　_were　_popular　in
  reality；　which　I　doubt；　it　is　at　least　clear　that　no　very　long　poem　will
  ever　be　popular　again。
  That　the　extent　of　a　poetical　work　is；　_ceteris　paribus；　_the　measure
  of　its　merit；　seems　undoubtedly；　when　we　thus　state　it；　a　proposition
  sufficiently　absurd　　yet　we　are　indebted　for　it　to　the　Quarterly
  Reviews。　Surely　there　can　be　nothing　in　mere　_size；　_abstractly　considered
  there　can　be　nothing　in　mere　_bulk；　so　_far　as　a　volume　is　concerned；
  which　has　so　continuously　elicited　admiration　from　these　saturnine
  pamphlets！　A　mountain；　to　be　sure；　by　the　mere　sentiment　of　physical
  magnitude　which　it　conveys；　_does　_impress　us　with　a　sense　of　the　sublime
  but　no　man　is　impressed　after　_this　_fashion　by　the　material　grandeur
  of　even　〃The　Columbiad。〃　Even　the　Quarterlies　have　not　instructed　us　to　be
  so　impressed　by　it。　As　_yet；　_they　have　not　_insisted　_on　our　estimating
  Lamar〃　tine　by　the　cubic　foot；　or　Pollock　by　the　pound　　but　what　else
  are　we　to　_infer　_from　their　continual　plating　about　〃sustained　effort〃？
  If；　by　〃sustained　effort；〃　any　little　gentleman　has　accomplished　an　epic；
  1*　us　frankly　commend　him　for　the　effort　　if　this　indeed　be　a　thing　conk
  mendablebut　let　us　forbear　praising　the　epic　on　the　effort's　account。　It
  is　to　be　hoped　that　common　sense；　in　the　time　to　come；　will　prefer
  deciding　upon　a　work　of　Art　rather　by　the　impression　it　makes　　by　the
  effect　it　produces　　than　by　the　time　it　took　to　impress　the　effect；　or
  by　the　amount　of　〃sustained　effort〃　which　had　been　found　necessary　in
  effecting　the　impression。　The　fact　is；　that　perseverance　is　one　thing　and
  genius　quite　another　　nor　can　all　the　Quarterlies　in　Christendom
  confound　them。　By　and　by；　this　proposition；　with　many　which　I　have　been
  just　urging；　will　be　received　as　self…evident。　In　the　meantime；　by　being
  generally　condemned　as　falsities；　they　will　not　be　essentially　damaged　as
  truths。
  On　the　other　hand；　it　is　clear　that　a　poem　may　be　improperly　brief。
  Undue　brevity　degenerates　into　mere　epigrammatism。　A　very　short　poem；
  while　now　and　then　producing　a　brilliant　or　vivid；　never　produces　a
  profound　or　enduring　effect。　There　must　be　the　steady　pressing　down　of　the
  stamp　upon　the　wax。　De　Beranger　has　wrought　innumerable　things；　pungent
  and　spirit…stirring；　but　in　general　they　have　been　too　imponderous　to
  stamp　themselves　deeply　into　the　public　attention；　and　thus；　as　so　many
  feathers　of　fancy；　have　been　blown　aloft　only　to　be　whistled　down　the
  wind。
  A　remarkable　instance　of　the　effect　of　undue　brevity　in　depressing　a
  poem；　in　keeping　it　out　of　the　popular　view；　is　afforded　by　the　following
  exquisite　little　Serenade
  I　arise　from　dreams　of　thee
  In　the　first　sweet　sleep　of　night；
  When　the　winds　are　breathing　low；
  And　the　stars　are　shining　bright。
  I　arise　from　dreams　of　thee；
  And　a　spirit　in　my　feet
  Has　led　me　　who　knows　how？
  To　thy　chamber…window；　sweet！
  The　wandering　airs　they　faint
  On　the　dark　the　silent　stream
  The　champak　odors　fail
  Like　sweet　thoughts　in　a　dream；
  The　nightingale's　complaint；
  It　dies　upon　her　heart；
  As　I　must　die　on　shine；
  O；　beloved　as　thou　art！
  O；　lift　me　from　the　grass！
  I　die；　I　faint；　I　fail！
  Let　thy　love　in　kisses　rain
  On　my　lips　and　eyelids　pale。
  My　cheek　is　cold　and　white；　alas！
  My　heart　beats　loud　and　fast：
  O；　press　it　close　to　shine　again；
  Where　it　will　break　at　last。
  Very　few　perhaps　are　familiar　with　these　linesyet　no　less　a　poet
  than　Shelley　is　their　author。　Their　warm；　yet　delicate　and　ethereal
  imagination　will　be　appreciated　by　all；　but　by　none　so　thoroughly　as　by
  him　who　has　himself　arisen　from　sweet　dreams　of　one　beloved　to　bathe　in
  the　aromatic　air　of　a　southern　midsummer　night。
  One　of　the　finest　poems　by　Willis　　the　very　best　in　my　opinion　which
  he　has　ever　writtenhas　no　doubt；　through　this　same　defect　of　undue
  brevity；　been　kept　back　from　its　proper　position。　not　less　in　the
  The　shadows　lay　along　Broadway；
  'Twas　near　the　twilight…tide
  And　slowly　there　a　lady　fair
  Was　walking　in　her　pride。
  Alone　walk'd　she；　but；　viewlessly；
  Walk'd　spirits　at　her　side。
  Peace　charm'd　the　street　beneath　her　feet；
  And　Honor　charm'd　the　air；
  And　all　astir　looked　kind　on　her；
  And　called　her　good　as　fair
  For　all　God　ever　gave　to　her
  She　kept　with　chary　care。
  She　kept　with　care　her　beauties　rare
  From　lovers　warm　and　true
  For　heart　was　cold　to　all　but　gold；
  And　the　rich　came　not　to　won；
  But　honor'd　well　her　charms　to　sell。
  If　priests　the　selling　do。
  Now　walking　there　was　one　more　fair
  A　slight　girl；　lily…pale；
  And　she　had　unseen　company
  To　make　the　spirit　quail
  'Twixt　Want　and　Scorn　she　walk'd　forlorn；
  And　nothing　could　avail。
  No　mercy　now　can　clear　her　brow
  From　this　world's　peace　to　pray
  For　as　love's　wild　prayer　dissolved　in　air；
  Her　woman's　heart　gave　way！
  But　the　sin　forgiven　by　Christ　in　Heaven
  By　man　is　cursed　alway！
  In　this　composition　we　find　it　difficult　to　recognize　the　Willis　who
  has　written　so　many　mere　〃verses　of　society。〃　The　lines　are　not　only
  richly　ideal；　but　full　of　energy；　while　they　breathe　an　earnestness；　an
  evident　sincerity　of　sentiment；　for　which　we　look　in　vain　throughout　all
  the　other　works　of　this　author。
  While　the　epic　mania；　while　the　idea　that　to　merit　in　poetry　prolixity
  is　indispensable；　has　for　some　years　past　been　gradually　dying　out　of　the
  public　mind；　by　mere　dint　of　its　own　absurdity；　we　find　it　succeeded　by　a
  heresy　too　palpably　false　to　be　long　tolerated；　but　one　which；　in　the
  brief　period　it　has　already　endured；　may　be　said　to　have　accomplished　more
  in　the　corruption　of　our　Poetical　Literature　than　all　its　other　enemies
  combined。　I　allude　to　the　heresy　of　_The　Didactic。　_It　has　been　assumed；
  tacitly　and　avowedly；　directly　and　indirectly；　that　the　ultimate　object　of
  all　Poetry　is　Truth。　Every　poem；　it　is　said；　should　inculcate　a　morals　and
  by　this　moral　is　the　poetical　merit　of　the　work　to　be　adjudged。　We
  Americans　especially　have　patronized　this　happy　idea；　and　we　Bostonians
  very　especially　have　developed　it　in　full。　We　have　taken　it　into　our　heads
  that　to　write　a　poem　simply　for　the　poem's　sake；　and　to　acknowledge　such
  to　have　been　our　design；　would　be　to　confess　ourselves　radically　wanting
  in　the　true　poetic　dignity　and　force：but　the　simple　fact　is　that　would
  we　but　permit　ourselves　to　look　into　our　own　souls　we　should　immediately
  there　discover　that　under　the　sun　there　neither　exists　nor　_can　_exist　any
  work　more　thoroughly　dignified；　more　supremely　noble；　than　this　very　poem；
  this　poem　_per　se；　_this　poem　which　is　a　poem　and　nothing　more；　this　poem
  written　solely　for　the　poem's　sake。
  With　as　deep　a　reverence　for　the　True　as　ever　inspired　the　bosom　of
  man；　I　would　nevertheless　limit；　in　some　measure；　its　modes　of
  inculcation。　I　would　limit　to　enforce　them。　I　would　not　enfeeble　them　by
  dissipation。　The　demands　of　Truth　are　severe。　She　has　no　sympathy　with　the
  myrtles。　All　_that　_which　is　so　indispensable　in　Song　is　precisely　all
  _that　_with　which　_she　_has　nothing　whatever　to　do。　It　is　but　making　her　a
  flaunting　paradox　to　wreathe　her　in　gems　and　flowers。　In　enforcing　a　truth
  we　need　severity　rather　than　efflorescence　of　language。　We　must　be　simple；
  precise；　terse。　We　must　be　cool；　calm；　unimpassioned。　In　a　word；　we　must
  be　in　that　mood　which；　as　nearly　as　possible；　is　the　exact　converse　of　the
  poetical。　_He　_must　be　blind　indeed　who　does　not　perceive　the　radical　and
  chasmal　difference　between　the　truthful　and　the　poetical　modes　of
  inculcation。　He　must　be　theory…mad　beyond　redemption　who；　in　spite　of
  these　differences；　shall　still　persist　in　attempting　to　reconcile　the
  obstinate　oils　and　waters　of　Poetry　and　Truth。
  Dividing　the　world　of　mind　into　its　three　most　immediately　obvious
  distinctions；　we　have　the　Pure　Intellect；　Taste；　and　the　Moral　Sense。　I
  place　Taste　in　the　middle；　because　it　is　just　this　position　which　in　the
  mind　it　occupies。　It　holds　intimate　relations　with　either　extreme；　but
  from　the　Moral　Sense　is　separated　by　so　faint　a　difference　that　Aristotle
  has　not　hesitated