agination in them, is the representative power of all
nature. It has its centre in the human soul, and makes the circuit of the
universe.

Pope was not assuredly a poet of this class, or in the first rank of it.
He saw nature only dressed by art; he judged of beauty by fashion; he
sought for truth in the opinions of the world; he judged of the feelings
of others by his own. The capacious soul of Shakspeare had an intuitive
and mighty sympathy with whatever could enter into the heart of man in
all possible circumstances: Pope had an exact knowledge of all that he
himself loved or hated, wished or wanted. Milton has winged his daring
flight from heaven to earth, through Chaos and old Night. Pope's Muse
never wandered with safety, but from his library to his grotto, or from
his grotto into his library back again. His mind dwelt with greater
pleasure on his own garden, than on the garden of Eden; he could describe
the faultless whole-length mirror that reflected his own person, better
than the smooth surface of the lake that reflects the face of heaven--a
piece of cut-glass or a pair of paste buckles with more brilliance and
effect, than a thousand dew-drops glittering in the sun. He would be more
delighted with a patent lamp, than with "the pale reflex of Cynthia's
brow," that fills the skies with its soft silent lustre, that trembles
through the cottage window, and cheers the watchful mariner on the lonely
wave. In short, he was the poet of personality and of polished life. That
which was nearest to him, was the greatest; the fashion of the day bore
sway in his mind over the immutable laws of nature. He preferred the
artificial to the natural in external objects, because he had a stronger
fellow-feeling with the self-love of the maker or proprietor of a gewgaw,
than admiration of that which was interesting to all mankind. He preferred
the artificial to the natural in passion, because the involuntary and
uncalculating impulses of the one hurried him away with a force and
vehemence with which he could not grapple; while he could trifle with the
conventional and superficial modifications of mere sentiment at will,
laugh at or admire, put them on or off like a masquerade dress, make much
or little of them, indulge them for a longer or a shorter time, as he
pleased; and because while they amused his fancy and exercised his
ingenuity, they never once disturbed his vanity, his levity, or
indifference. His mind was the antithesis