The truth is, I am heartily sick of
      this life and of the nineteenth century in general. I am convinced that
      every thing is going wrong. Besides, I am anxious to know who will be
      President in 2045. As soon, therefore, as I shave and swallow a cup of
      coffee, I shall just step over to Ponnonner’s and get embalmed for a
      couple of hundred years. THE POETIC PRINCIPLE


      In speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design to be either
      thorough or profound. While discussing, very much at random, the
      essentiality of what we call Poetry, my principal purpose will be to cite
      for consideration, some few of those minor English or American poems which
      best suit my own taste, or which, upon my own fancy, have left the most
      definite impression. By “minor poems” I mean, of course, poems of little
      length. And here, in the beginning, permit me to say a few words in regard
      to a somewhat peculiar principle, which, whether rightfully or wrongfully,
      has always had its influence in my own critical estimate of the poem. I
      hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the phrase, “a long
      poem,” is simply a flat contradiction in terms. I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch as it
      excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in the ratio of
      this elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through a psychal
      necessity, transient. That degree of excitement which would entitle a poem
      to be so called at all, cannot be sustained throughout a composition of
      any great length. After the lapse of half an hour, at the very utmost, it
      flags—fails—a revulsion ensues—and then the poem is, in
      effect, and in fact, no longer such. There are, no doubt, many who have found difficulty in reconciling the
      critical dictum that the “Paradise Lost” is to be devoutly admired
      throughout, with the absolute impossibility of maintaining for it, during
      perusal, the amount of enthusiasm which that critical dictum would demand. This great work, in fact, is to be regarded as poetical, only when, losing
      sight of that vital requisite in all works of Art, Unity, we view it
      merely as a series of minor poems. If, to preserve its Unity—its
      totality of effect or impression—we read it (as would be necessary)
      at a single sitting, the result is but a constant alternation of
      excitement 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 modern 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, let us frankly commend him for
      the effort—if this indeed be a thing conk mendable—but 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!