ais non pas en ce qu'elles nient,' and
_to employ his own language, he has imprisoned his own conceptions by
the barrier he has erected against those of others. It is lamentable to
think that such a mind should be buried in metaphysics, and, like the
Nyctanthes, waste its perfume upon the night alone. In reading that
man's poetry, I tremble like one who stands upon a volcano, conscious
from the very darkness bursting from the crater, of the fire and the
light that are weltering below.

"What is poetry?--Poetry! that Proteus-like idea, with as many
appellations as the nine-titled Corcyra! 'Give me,' I demanded of
a scholar some time ago, 'give me a definition of poetry.'
_'Tresvolontiers;' _and he proceeded to his library, brought me a Dr.
Johnson, and overwhelmed me with a definition. Shade of the immortal
Shakespeare! I imagine to myself the scowl of your spiritual eye upon
the profanity of that scurrilous Ursa Major. Think of poetry, dear B-,
think of poetry, and then think of Dr. Samuel Johnson! Think of all that
is airy and fairy-like, and then of all that is hideous and unwieldy;
think of his huge bulk, the Elephant! and then-and then think of the
'Tempest'--the 'Midsummer-Night's Dream'--Prospero Oberon--and Titania!

"A poem, in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having, for
its _immediate _object, pleasure, not truth; to romance, by having, for
its object, an _indefinite _instead of a _definite _pleasure, being
a poem only so far as this object is attained; romance presenting
perceptible images with definite, poetry with indefinite sensations,
to which end music is an _essential, since _the comprehension of sweet
sound is our most indefinite conception. Music, when combined with a
pleasurable idea, is poetry; music, without the idea, is simply music;
the idea, wi thout the music, is prose, from its very definitiveness.

"What was meant by the invective against him who had no music in his
soul?

"To sum up this long rigmarole, I have, dear B--, what you, no doubt,
perceive, for the metaphysical poets as poets, the most sovereign
contempt. That they have followers proves nothing-

"'No Indian prince has to his palace
More followers than a thief to the gallows.

SONNET--TO SCIENCE

SCIENCE! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart,
Vulture, whose wings are dull reali