Methodism and
Unitarianism, are flat and dull to dull people, but rest on the same
foundations of wonder as the town of Troy and the temple of Delphi,
and are as swiftly passing away. Our logrolling, our stumps and their
politics, our fisheries, our Negroes and Indians, our boats and our
repudiations, the wrath of rogues and the pusillanimity of honest men,
the northern trade, the southern planting, the western clearing, Oregon
and Texas, are yet unsung. Yet America is a poem in our eyes; its ample
geography dazzles the imagination, and it will not wait long for metres.
If I have not found that excellent combination of gifts in my countrymen
which I seek, neither could I aid myself to fix the idea of the poet
by reading now and then in Chalmers's collection of five centuries of
English poets. These are wits more than poets, though there have been
poets among them. But when we adhere to the ideal of the poet, we have
our difficulties even with Milton and Homer. Milton is too literary, and
Homer too literal and historical.

But I am not wise enough for a national criticism, and must use the old
largeness a little longer, to discharge my errand from the muse to the
poet concerning his art.

Art is the path of the creator to his work. The paths or methods are
ideal and eternal, though few men ever see them; not the artist himself
for years, or for a lifetime, unless he come into the conditions. The
painter, the sculptor, the composer, the epic rhapsodist, the orator,
all partake one desire, namely to express themselves symmetrically
and abundantly, not dwarfishly and fragmentarily. They found or put
themselves in certain conditions, as, the painter and sculptor before
some impressive human figures; the orator, into the assembly of the
people; and the others in such scenes as each has found exciting to his
intellect; and each presently feels the new desire. He hears a voice,
he sees a beckoning. Then he is apprised, with wonder, what herds of
daemons hem him in. He can no more rest; he says, with the old painter,
"By God, it is in me and must go forth of me." He pursues a beauty,
half seen, which flies before him. The poet pours out verses in every
solitude. Most of the things he says are conventional, no doubt; but by
and by he says something which is original and beautiful. That charms
him. He would say nothing else but such things. In our way of talking
we say 'That is yours, this is mine;' but the poet knows well that i