e 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 und