THE LANGUAfiE OF PASSIOX. 



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fere Eloquence had ascended her proud rostrum, or History had unrolled 

 her wondrous scroll ; before the Philosopher had penetrated the hidden 

 arcana of nature, or the Legislator had discussed the intricate science of 

 government; before the sleepless eye of the Astronomer had scanned 

 the circling orbs of the midnight heavens, or the Geographer, \viih aim 

 less elevated, had explored and described his ultima Thule. Tlie voice 

 of blind old Homer floated over the plains of mighty but dormant Greece 

 like a spirit-song from a brighter sphere, while barbarism yet rioted be- 

 neath that sunny clime. But why does Poetry thrive in such early and 

 rude ages, the antecedent of Prose r Simply because the savage is the slave 

 of momentary impulse — he is the child of feeling ; his heart, in its wild 

 and tumultuous throbbings, acknowledges no sovereign but his ever va- 

 rying passions, and hence his Language is of that wild, abrupt, exclamatory, 

 yet highly poetical style, which passion always dictates. But it is not 

 amid the murkiest gloom of the night of barbarism that Poetry flour- 

 ishes in its greatest vigor. It is in the period immediately succeeding, 

 when the stars are waning in the heavens and the mist of night is slowly 

 receding from the earth, when the footprints of rose-crowned Aurora 

 can already be seen in the blushing hues of the glowing Orient, that 

 Poetry breathes her choicest strain. This is the auspicious moment, 

 when the mind has become expanded and enriched, the imagination 

 chastened and refined, but when the passions are tlniving in all their 

 native and unchecked luxuriance, for the production of model-poets. Ac- 

 cordingly we find that the most glorious poets of the world have arisen 

 in .this twilight of civilization. This was true of Dante, Boccaccio and 

 Petrarch of Italy, Corneille and Racine of France, Cervantes of Spain, 

 Camoens of Portugal. Spenser, Shakespeare and Milton were the morn- 

 ing stars, that sang together in prospect of the glorious day that was 

 dawning in England. Garrick has truly said, that Shakespeare dip'd his 

 pencil in his own heart. Centuries roll after centuries like the never-ceas- 

 ing waves of the restless deep, each effacing every vestige of its prede- 

 cessor — change is writing its stern name upon every part of the crumb- 

 ling world — poets flourish, like ephemera^ for a day and are engulpiied 

 in the Lethean waves of oblivion ; yet Shakespeare still sits upon the 

 throne of English Poesy, entwining the chaplet of triumph in immortal 

 verdancy around his brow. Why does his fame encompass the earth 

 and defy the ravages of time ? It is because he faithfully portrayed the 

 emotions of his own breast, and although the material world may change, 

 the passions of mankind are similar in all countries and all ages. 



In more refined ages those Poets, who have made their names as fa- 

 miliar with us as "household words," were individuals of the most acute 

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