or　him　a　necessity　of　nature　to　live　in　the　very　fact　of　things。　　A　man　once　more；　in　earnest　with　the　Universe；　though　all　others　were　but　toying　with　it。　　He　is　a　_Vates_；　first　of　all；　in　virtue　of　being　sincere。　　So　far　Poet　and　Prophet；　participators　in　the　〃open　secret；〃　are　one。
  With　respect　to　their　distinction　again：　　The　_Vates_　Prophet；　we　might　say；　has　seized　that　sacred　mystery　rather　on　the　moral　side；　as　Good　and　Evil；　Duty　and　Prohibition；　the　_Vates_　Poet　on　what　the　Germans　call　the　aesthetic　side；　as　Beautiful；　and　the　like。　　The　one　we　may　call　a　revealer　of　what　we　are　to　do；　the　other　of　what　we　are　to　love。　　But　indeed　these　two　provinces　run　into　one　another；　and　cannot　be　disjoined。　　The　Prophet　too　has　his　eye　on　what　we　are　to　love：　　how　else　shall　he　know　what　it　is　we　are　to　do？　　The　highest　Voice　ever　heard　on　this　earth　said　withal；　〃Consider　the　lilies　of　the　field；　they　toil　not；　neither　do　they　spin：　yet　Solomon　in　all　his　glory　was　not　arrayed　like　one　of　these。〃　　A　glance；　that；　into　the　deepest　deep　of　Beauty。　　〃The　lilies　of　the　field；〃dressed　finer　than　earthly　princes；　springing　up　there　in　the　humble　furrow…field；　a　beautiful　_eye_　looking　out　on　you；　from　the　great　inner　Sea　of　Beauty！　How　could　the　rude　Earth　make　these；　if　her　Essence；　rugged　as　she　looks　and　is；　were　not　inwardly　Beauty？　　In　this　point　of　view；　too；　a　saying　of　Goethe's；　which　has　staggered　several；　may　have　meaning：　　〃The　Beautiful；〃　he　intimates；　〃is　higher　than　the　Good；　the　Beautiful　includes　in　it　the　Good。〃　　The　_true_　Beautiful；　which　however；　I　have　said　somewhere；　〃differs　from　the　_false_　as　Heaven　does　from　Vauxhall！〃　　So　much　for　the　distinction　and　identity　of　Poet　and　Prophet。
  In　ancient　and　also　in　modern　periods　we　find　a　few　Poets　who　are　accounted　perfect；　whom　it　were　a　kind　of　treason　to　find　fault　with。　　This　is　noteworthy；　this　is　right：　　yet　in　strictness　it　is　only　an　illusion。　　At　bottom；　clearly　enough；　there　is　no　perfect　Poet！　　A　vein　of　Poetry　exists　in　the　hearts　of　all　men；　no　man　is　made　altogether　of　Poetry。　　We　are　all　poets　when　we　_read_　a　poem　well。　　The　〃imagination　that　shudders　at　the　Hell　of　Dante；〃　is　not　that　the　same　faculty；　weaker　in　degree；　as　Dante's　own？　　No　one　but　Shakspeare　can　embody；　out　of　_Saxo　Grammaticus_；　the　story　of　_Hamlet_　as　Shakspeare　did：　　but　every　one　models　some　kind　of　story　out　of　it；　every　one　embodies　it　better　or　worse。　　We　need　not　spend　time　in　defining。　　Where　there　is　no　specific　difference；　as　between　round　and　square；　all　definition　must　be　more　or　less　arbitrary。　　A　man　that　has　_so_　much　more　of　the　poetic　element　developed　in　him　as　to　have　become　noticeable；　will　be　called　Poet　by　his　neighbors。　　World…Poets　too；　those　whom　we　are　to　take　for　perfect　Poets；　are　settled　by　critics　in　the　same　way。　　One　who　rises　_so_　far　above　the　general　level　of　Poets　will；　to　such　and　such　critics；　seem　a　Universal　Poet；　as　he　ought　to　do。　　And　yet　it　is；　and　must　be；　an　arbitrary　distinction。　　All　Poets；　all　men；　have　some　touches　of　the　Universal；　no　man　is　wholly　made　of　that。　　Most　Poets　are　very　soon　forgotten：　　but　not　the　noblest　Shakspeare　or　Homer　of　them　can　be　remembered　_forever_；a　day　comes　when　he　too　is　not！
  Nevertheless；　you　will　say；　there　must　be　a　difference　between　true　Poetry　and　true　Speech　not　poetical：　　what　is　the　difference？　　On　this　point　many　things　have　been　written；　especially　by　late　German　Critics；　some　of　which　are　not　very　intelligible　at　first。　　They　say；　for　example；　that　the　Poet　has　an　_infinitude_　in　him；　communicates　an　_Unendlichkeit_；　a　certain　character　of　〃infinitude；〃　to　whatsoever　he　delineates。　　This；　though　not　very　precise；　yet　on　so　vague　a　matter　is　worth　remembering：　　if　well　meditated；　some　meaning　will　gradually　be　found　in　it。　　For　my　own　part；　I　find　considerable　meaning　in　the　old　vulgar　distinction　of　Poetry　being　_metrical_；　having　music　in　it；　being　a　Song。　　Truly；　if　pressed　to　give　a　definition；　one　might　say　this　as　soon　as　anything　else：　　If　your　delineation　be　authentically　_musical_；　musical　not　in　word　only；　but　in　heart　and　substance；　in　all　the　thoughts　and　utterances　of　it；　in　the　whole　conception　of　it；　then　it　will　be　poetical；　if　not；　not。Musical：　　how　much　lies　in　that！　　A　_musical_　thought　is　one　spoken　by　a　mind　that　has　penetrated　into　the　inmost　heart　of　the　thing；　detected　the　inmost　mystery　of　it；　namely　the　_melody_　that　lies　hidden　in　it；　the　inward　harmony　of　coherence　which　is　its　soul；　whereby　it　exists；　and　has　a　right　to　be；　here　in　this　world。　　All　inmost　things；　we　may　say；　are　melodious；　naturally　utter　themselves　in　Song。　　The　meaning　of　Song　goes　deep。　　Who　is　there　that；　in　logical　words；　can　express　the　effect　music　has　on　us？　　A　kind　of　inarticulate　unfathomable　speech；　which　leads　us　to　the　edge　of　the　Infinite；　and　lets　us　for　moments　gaze　into　that！
  Nay　all　speech；　even　the　commonest　speech；　has　something　of　song　in　it：　not　a　parish　in　the　world　but　has　its　parish…accent；the　rhythm　or　_tune_　to　which　the　people　there　_sing_　what　they　have　to　say！　　Accent　is　a　kind　of　chanting；　all　men　have　accent　of　their　own；though　they　only　_notice_　that　of　others。　　Observe　too　how　all　passionate　language　does　of　itself　become　musical；with　a　finer　music　than　the　mere　accent；　the　speech　of　a　man　even　in　zealous　anger　becomes　a　chant；　a　song。　　All　deep　things　are　Song。　　It　seems　somehow　the　very　central　essence　of　us；　Song；　as　if　all　the　rest　were　but　wrappages　and　hulls！　　The　primal　element　of　us；　of　us；　and　of　all　things。　　The　Greeks　fabled　of　Sphere…Harmonies：　　it　was　the　feeling　they　had　of　the　inner　structure　of　Nature；　that　the　soul　of　all　her　voices　and　utterances　was　perfect　music。　　Poetry；　therefore；　we　will　call　_musical　Thought_。　　The　Poet　is　he　who　_thinks_　in　that　manner。　　At　bottom；　it　turns　still　on　power　of　intellect；　it　is　a　man's　sincerity　and　depth　of　vision　that　makes　him　a　Poet。　　See　deep　enough；　and　you　see　musically；　the　heart　of　Nature　_being_　everywhere　music；　if　you　can　only　reach　it。
  The　_Vates_　Poet；　with　his　melodious　Apocalypse　of　Nature；　seems　to　hold　a　poor　rank　among　us；　in　comparison　with　the　_Vates_　Prophet；　his　function；　and　our　esteem　of　him　for　his　function；　alike　slight。　　The　Hero　taken　as　Divinity；　the　Hero　taken　as　Prophet；　then　next　the　Hero　taken　only　as　Poet：　does　it　not　look　as　if　our　estimate　of　the　Great　Man；　epoch　after　epoch；　were　continually　diminishing？　　We　take　him　first　for　a　god；　then　for　one　god…inspired；　and　now　in　the　next　stage　of　it；　his　most　miraculous　word　gains　from　us　only　the　recognition　that　he　is　a　Poet；　beautiful　verse…maker；　man　of　genius；　or　such　like！It　looks　so；　but　I　persuade　myself　that　intrinsically　it　is　not　so。　　If　we　consider　well；　it　will　perhaps　appear　that　in　man　still　there　is　the　_same_　altogether　peculiar　admiration　for　the　Heroic　Gift；　by　what　name　soever　called；　that　there　at　any　time　was。
  I　should　say；　if　we　do　not　now　reckon　a　Great　Man　literally　divine；　it　is　that　our　notions　of　God；　of　the　supreme　unattainable　Fountain　of　Splendor；　Wisdom　and　Heroism；　are　ever　rising　_higher_；　not　altogether　that　our　reverence　for　these　qualities；　as　manifested　in　our　like；　is　getting　lower。　This　is　worth　taking　thought　of。　　Sceptical　Dilettantism；　the　curse　of　these　ages；　a　curse　which　will　not　last　forever；　does　indeed　in　this　the　highest　province　of　human　things；　as　in　all　provinces；　make　sad　work；　and　our　reverence　for　great　men；　all　crippled；　blinded；　paralytic　as　it　is；　comes　out　in　poor　plight；　hardly　recognizable。　　Men　worship　the　shows　of　great　men；　the　most　disbelieve　that　there　is　any　reality　of　great　men　to　worship。　　The　dreariest；　fatalest　faith；　believing　which；　one　would　literally　despair　of　human　things。　　Nevertheless　look；　for　example；　at　Napoleon！　　A　Corsican　lieutenant　of　artillery；　that　is　the　show　of　_him_：　yet　is　he　not　obeyed；　worshipped　after　his　sort；　as　all　the　Tiaraed　and　Diademed　of　the　world　put　together　could　not　be？　　High　Duchesses；　and　ostlers　of　inns；　gather　round　the　Scottish　rustic；　Burns；a　strange　feeling　dwelling　in　each　that　they　never　heard　a　man　like　this；　that；　on　the　whole；　this　is　the　man！　　In　the　secret　heart　of　these　people　it　still　dimly　reveals　itself；　though　there　is　no　accredited　way　of　uttering　it　at　present；　that　this　rustic；　with　his　black　brows　and　flashing　sun…eyes；　and　strange　words　moving　laughter　and　tears；　is　of　a　dignity　far　beyond　all　others；　incommensurable　with　all　others。　　Do　not　we　feel　it　so？　　But　now；　were　Dilettantism；　Scepticism；　Triviality；　and　all　that　sorrowful　brood；　cast　out　of　us；as；　by　God's　blessing；　they　shall　one　day　be；　were　faith　in　the　shows　of　things　entirely　swept　out；　replaced　by　clear　faith　in　the　_things_；　so　that　a　man　acted　on　the　impulse　of　that　only；　and　counted　the　other　non…extant；　what　a　new　livelier　feeling　towards　this　Burns　were　it！
  Nay　here　in　these　ages；　such　as　they　are；　have　we　not　two　mere　Poets；　if　not　deified；　yet　we　may　say　beatified？　　Shakspeare　and　Dante　are　Saints　of　Poetry；　really；　if　we　will　think　of　it；　_canonized_；　so　that　it　is　impiety　to　meddle　with　them。　　The　unguided　instinct　of　the　world；　working　across　all　these　perverse　impediments；　has　arrived　at　such　result。　　Dante　and　S