which express what they understand not; the trumpets which sing to
battle, and feel not what they inspire; the influence which is moved
not, but moves. Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the
world.

[13] This was never written.

WILLIAM HAZLITT

1778-1830

MY FIRST ACQUAINTANCE WITH POETS (1823)

My father was a Dissenting Minister at Wem in Shropshire; and in the
year 1798 (the figures that compose the date are to me like the
'dreaded name of Demogorgon') Mr. Coleridge came to Shrewsbury, to
succeed Mr. Rowe in the spiritual charge of a Unitarian congregation
there. He did not come till late on the Saturday afternoon before he
was to preach; and Mr. Rowe, who himself went down to the coach in a
state of anxiety and expectation to look for the arrival of his
successor, could find no one at all answering the description but a
round-faced man in a short black coat (like a shooting-jacket) which
hardly seemed to have been made for him, but who seemed to be talking
at a great rate to his fellow-passengers. Mr. Rowe had scarce returned
to give an account of his disappointment, when the round-faced man in
black entered, and dissipated all doubts on the subject, by beginning
to talk. He did not cease while he stayed; nor has he since, that I
know of. He held the good town of Shrewsbury in delightful suspense
for three weeks that he remained there, 'fluttering the _proud
Salopians_ like an eagle in a dove-cote'; and the Welsh mountains that
skirt the horizon with their tempestuous confusion, agree to have
heard no such mystic sounds since the days of

High-born Hoel's harp or soft Llewelyn's lay!

As we passed along between Wem and Shrewsbury, and I eyed their blue
tops seen through the wintry branches, or the red rustling leaves of
the sturdy oak-trees by the road-side, a sound was in my ears as of a
Siren's song; I was stunned, startled with it, as from deep sleep; but
I had no notion then that I should ever be able to express my
admiration to others in motley imagery or quaint allusion, till the
light of his genius shone into my soul, like the sun's rays glittering
in the puddles of the road. I was at that time dumb, inarticulate,
helpless, like a worm by the way-side, crushed, bleeding, lifeless;
but now, bursting from the deadly bands that 'bound them,

With Styx nine times round them,'

my ideas float on winged words, and as they expand their plumes, catch
the golden light of oth