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The poetry consists in a beautiful, yet perfectly natural play of the 

 imagination, which, in the first instance, expresses the delicate, grace- 

 ful beauty of the flower by calling it a lady, and, in the second instance, 

 expresses its purity and brilliance by identifying it with light. Again, 

 few can be insensible to the deep stillness, the hushed and dream-like 

 loveliness of a moonlight night in the country. An astronomer will 

 perhaps see in the dim spectral light only a pale cold reflection of the 

 fiercer glory of the sun ; but a poet like Shakspeare exclaims — 



" How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this hank ! " 

 He seizes the peculiar charm of the scene and puts it prominently forth 

 by personifying the moonbeams as a living being, asleep upon the 

 grassy bank, which they bathe in their gentle light. Let us take 

 another example — a ship at sea, sailing before a gentle breeze. Com- 

 mon minds would have nothing to say of it beyond the fact of a vessel 

 impeUed by the wind over the surface of the water. A seaman would 

 recognise all the technical chai'acteristics, and tell us whether it was a 

 ship, a barque, or a brig. But what says the poet ? — 

 " She walks the waters like a thing of life." 

 The poet's imagination at once personifies the ship, expressing its 

 beautiful appearance and graceful motion by speaking of it as a living 

 being, gliding along with gentle ease and dignity. The simple pro- 

 noun " she," commonly applied to a ship, is strictly poetical in the 

 same way ; and so, indeed, really are many of the expressions em- 

 bodied in our common talk. 



Let us take one or two more extended examples of what I mean by 

 the truth of poetry, that is, its accordance with the natural feelings of 

 the human heart. Shakspeare 's " King Lear," exposed to the violence 

 of a storm when driven from house and home by the cold ingratitude 

 of the two daughters between whom he had divided his kingdom, thus 

 defies the fury of the tempest — 



" Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks ! rage ! hlow ! 

 * * * * Spit, fire ! spout, raia ! 

 Nor rain, wind, thunder, fii-e, are my daughters : 

 I tax not you, ye elements, with unkinduess ; 

 I never gave you kingdoms, call'd you children ; 

 You owe me no subscription ; why then let fall 

 Your horrible pleasure ; here I stand, your slave, 

 A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man : — 

 But yet I call you servile ministerH, 

 That have with two pernicious daughters join'd 

 Your high engender'd battles, 'gainst a liead 

 So old and wliitc as tliis. ! O ! 'tis foul !" 



The poetical truth of this passage consists in its power of exciting our 

 own involuntary sympathy with tlu- thoughts and words of the aged 



