39 



The same truth has been beautifully illustrated, in reference to the 

 divinities with which Greek imagiuatiou peopled the sea, by Mr. 

 Kingsley, in his " Glaucus." 



It would be easy to multiply, to any extent, illustrations of the 

 union of subjective truth with fictitious form, in which true poetry 

 consists. I will content myself with quoting some striking lines on 

 the Death of an Infant, by an American writer, Mrs. Sigouruey : — 



" Death found strange beauty on that cherub brow, - 

 And dash'd it out. There was a tint of rose 

 On cheek and lip ; he touched the veins with ice, 

 And the rose faded. Forth from those blue eyes 

 There spake a wishful tenderness — a doubt 

 Whether to grieve or sleep, ■which Innocence 

 Alone can wear. With ruthless haste he bound 

 The silken fringes of their curtaining lids 

 For ever. There had been a murmuring sound. 

 With which the babe would claim its mother's ear, 

 Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set 

 His seal of silence. But there beamed a smile, 

 So fis'd and holy, from that marble brow, — 

 Death gazed and left it there ; he dared not steal 

 The signet-ring of heaven." 



It will perhaps have appeared from what has already been said, in 

 what manner poetry admits of being applied to common life. One way 

 may often be by withdrawing our thoughts for a time from the cares 

 and anxieties attendant on daily duty, to dwell in spirit with the beau- 

 tiful creations of the poet. What Shakspeare says of man is emmently 

 true of the poet, that " he looks before and after." Dr. Johnson also 

 has remarked how much it adds to the dignity and elevation of man to 

 be enabled to extend his gaze back into the past, and forward into the 

 future, and abroad over the universe, and not to confine all his 

 thoughts to the narrow limits of the present moment, and of the spot 

 on which he stands. In the same way, then, it is an elevating occupa- 

 tion, as well as an innocent and delightful resource, to forget ourselves 

 at times in the ideal regions of poetry. It may be to us, in the words 

 of Shelley — 



" like the bright procession 

 Of skiey visions in a solemn dream. 

 From which men wake as from a paradise. 

 And draw fresh strengtli to tread the thorns of life." 



But the peculiar application of poetry to common life which I hud 

 in view, is closer and more iminodiato than this. Poetry may add to 

 the signilicancc anil pleasure of life, not merely by making us forget, 

 at times, our own realities in its ideal pictures, but by teaching us to 



