forms of
being, but of imagining and representing new ones, which is here
attributed with such distinctness and so sparingly, has been given by
nature in complete perfection to no man, nor entirely denied to any.
The shades of it cannot be distinguished by so loose a scale as
language. A definition of genius which excludes such a mind as
Schiller's will scarcely be agreeable to philosophical correctness,
and it will tend rather to lower than to exalt the dignity of the
word. Possessing all the general mental faculties in their highest
degree of strength, an intellect ever active, vast, powerful,
far-sighted; an imagination never weary of producing grand or
beautiful forms; a heart of the noblest temper, sympathies
comprehensive yet ardent, feelings vehement, impetuous, yet full of
love and kindliness and tender pity; conscious of the rapid and fervid
exercise of all these powers within him, and able farther to present
their products refined and harmonised, and 'married to immortal
verse,' Schiller may or may not be called a man of genius by his
critics; but his mind in either case will remain one of the most
enviable which can fall to the share of a mortal.

In a poet worthy of that name, the powers of the intellect are
indissolubly interwoven with the moral feelings, and the exercise of
his art depends not more on the perfection of the one than of the
other. The poet, who does not feel nobly and justly, as well as
passionately, will never permanently succeed in making others feel:
the forms of error and falseness, infinite in number, are transitory
in duration; truth, of thought and sentiment, but chiefly of
sentiment, truth alone is eternal and unchangeable. But, happily, a
delight in the products of reason and imagination can scarcely ever be
divided from, at least, a love for virtue and genuine greatness. Our
feelings are in favour of heroism; we _wish_ to be pure and perfect.
Happy he whose resolutions are so strong, or whose temptations are so
weak, that he can convert these feelings into action! The severest
pang, of which a proud and sensitive nature can be conscious, is the
perception of its own debasement. The sources of misery in life are
many: vice is one of the surest. Any human creature, tarnished with
guilt, will in general be wretched; a man of genius in that case will
be doubly so, for his ideas of excellence are higher, his sense of
failure is more keen. In such miseries, Schiller had no share. The
s