There is
the same minute and faithful imagery as in the former poem, in the
same vivid colours, inspirited by the same impetuous vigour of thought,
and diverging and contracting with the same activity of the assimilative
and of the modifying faculties; and with a yet larger display, a yet
wider range of knowledge and reflection; and lastly, with the same
perfect dominion, often domination, over the whole world of language.
What, then, shall we say? even this, that Shakespeare, no mere child
of nature; no automaton of genius; no passive vehicle of inspiration
possessed by the spirit, not possessing it; first studied patiently,
meditated deeply, understood minutely, till knowledge, become habitual
and intuitive, wedded itself to his habitual feelings, and at length
gave birth to that stupendous power, by which he stands alone, with
no equal or second in his own class; to that power which seated him
on one of the two glory-smitten summits of the poetic mountain, with
Milton as his compeer, not rival. While the former darts himself forth,
and passes into all the forms of human character and passion, the one
Proteus of the fire and the flood; the other attracts all forms and
things to himself, into the unity of his own ideal.
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