In the infancy of the world, neither poets themselves nor their auditors
are fully aware of the excellence of poetry: for it acts in a divine
and unapprehended manner, beyond and above consciousness; and it is
reserved for future generations to contemplate and measure the mighty
cause and effect in all the strength and splendour of their union.
Even in modern times, no living poet ever arrived at the fulness of
his fame; the jury which sits in judgment upon a poet, belonging as
he does to all time, must be composed of his peers: it must be
impanelled by Time from the selectest of the wise of many generations.
A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its
own solitude with sweet sounds; his auditors are as men entranced by
the melody of an unseen musician, who feel that they are moved and
softened, yet know not whence or why. The poems of Homer and his
contemporaries were the delight of infant Greece; they were the elements
of that social system which is the column upon which all succeeding
civilization has reposed.
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