from　the　Moral　Sense　is　separated　by　so　faint　a　difference　that　Aristotle
  has　not　hesitated　to　place　some　of　its　operations　among　the　virtues
  themselves。　Nevertheless　we　find　the　_offices　_of　the　trio　marked　with　a
  sufficient　distinction。　Just　as　the　Intellect　concerns　itself　with　Truth；
  so　Taste　informs　us　of　the　Beautiful；　while　the　Moral　Sense　is　regardful
  of　Duty。　Of　this　latter；　while　Conscience　teaches　the　obligation；　and
  Reason　the　expediency；　Taste　contents　herself　with　displaying　the　charms：
  waging　war　upon　Vice　solely　on　the　ground　of　her　deformity　　her
  disproportion　　her　animosity　to　the　fitting；　to　the　appropriate；　to　the
  harmonious　　in　a　word；　to　Beauty。
  An　immortal　instinct　deep　within　the　spirit　of　man　is　thus　plainly　a
  sense　of　the　Beautiful。　This　it　is　which　administers　to　his　delight　in　the
  manifold　forms；　and　sounds；　and　odors　and　sentiments　amid　which　he　exists。
  And　just　as　the　lily　is　repeated　in　the　lake；　or　the　eyes　of　Amaryllis　in
  the　mirror；　so　is　the　mere　oral　or　written　repetition　of　these　forms；　and
  sounds；　and　colors；　and　odors；　and　sentiments　a　duplicate　source　of　de〃
  light。　But　this　mere　repetition　is　not　poetry。　He　who　shall　simply　sing；
  with　however　glowing　enthusiasm；　or　with　however　vivid　a　truth　of
  description；　of　the　sights；　and　sounds；　and　odors；　and　colors；　and
  sentiments　which　greet　_him　_in　common　with　all　mankind　　he；　I　say；　has
  yet　failed　to　prove　his　divine　title。　There　is　still　a　something　in　the
  distance　which　he　has　been　unable　to　attain。　We　have　still　a　thirst
  unquenchable；　to　allay　which　he　has　not　shown　us　the　crystal　springs。　This
  thirst　belongs　to　the　immortality　of　Man。　It　is　at　once　a　consequence　and
  an　indication　of　his　perennial　existence。　It　is　the　desire　of　the　moth　for
  the　star。　It　is　no　mere　appreciation　of　the　Beauty　before　us；　but　a　wild
  effort　to　reach　the　Beauty　above。　Inspired　by　an　ecstatic　prescience　of
  the　glories　beyond　the　grave；　we　struggle　by　multiform　combinations　among
  the　things　and　thoughts　of　Time　to　attain　a　portion　of　that　Loveliness
  whose　very　elements　perhaps　appertain　to　eternity　alone。　And　thus　when　by
  Poetry；　or　when　by　Music；　the　most　entrancing　of　the　poetic　moods；　we　find
  ourselves　melted　into　tears；　we　weep　then；　not　as　the　Abbate　Gravina
  supposes；　through　excess　of　pleasure；　but　through　a　certain　petulant；
  impatient　sorrow　at　our　inability　to　grasp　now；　wholly；　here　on　earth；　at
  once　and　for　ever；　those　divine　and　rapturous　joys　of　which　_through'　_the
  poem；　or　_through　_the　music；　we　attain　to　but　brief　and　indeterminate
  glimpses。
  The　struggle　to　apprehend　the　supernal　Loveliness　　this　struggle；　on
  the　part　of　souls　fittingly　constituted　　has　given　to　the　world　all
  _that　_which　it　（the　world）　has　ever　been　enabled　at　once　to　understand
  and　_to　feel　_as　poetic。
  The　Poetic　Sentiment；　of　course；　may　develop　itself　in　various　modes
  in　Painting；　in　Sculpture；　in　Architecture；　in　the　Dance　　very
  especially　in　Music　　and　very　peculiarly；　and　with　a　wide　field；　in　the
  com　position　of　the　Landscape　Garden。　Our　present　theme；　however；　has
  regard　only　to　its　manifestation　in　words。　And　here　let　me　speak　briefly
  on　the　topic　of　rhythm。　Contenting　myself　with　the　certainty　that　Music；
  in　its　various　modes　of　metre；　rhythm；　and　rhyme；　is　of　so　vast　a　moment
  in　Poetry　as　never　to　be　wisely　rejected　　is　so　vitally　important　an
  adjunct；　that　he　is　simply　silly　who　declines　its　assistance；　I　will　not
  now　pause　to　maintain　its　absolute　essentiality。　It　is　in　Music　perhaps
  that　the　soul　most　nearly　attains　the　great　end　for　which；　when　inspired
  by　the　Poetic　Sentiment；　it　struggles　　the　creation　of　supernal　Beauty。
  It　_may　_be；　indeed；　that　here　this　sublime　end　is；　now　and　then；　attained
  in　_fact。　_We　are　often　made　to　feel；　with　a　shivering　delight；　that　from
  an　earthly　harp　are　stricken　notes　which　_cannot　_have　been　unfamiliar　to
  the　angels。　And　thus　there　can　be　little　doubt　that　in　the　union　of　Poetry
  with　Music　in　its　popular　sense；　we　shall　find　the　widest　field　for　the
  Poetic　development。　The　old　Bards　and　Minnesingers　had　advantages　which　we
  do　not　possess　　and　Thomas　Moore；　singing　his　own　songs；　was；　in　the
  most　legitimate　manner；　perfecting　them　as　poems。
  To　recapitulate　then：　　I　would　define；　in　brief；　the　Poetry　of　words
  as　_The　Rhythmical　Creation　of　Beauty。　_Its　sole　arbiter　is　Taste。　With
  the　Intellect　or　with　the　Conscience　it　has　only　collateral　relations。
  Unless　incidentally；　it　has　no　concern　whatever　either　with　Duty　or　with
  Truth。
  A　few　words；　however；　in　explanation。　_That　_pleasure　which　is　at　once
  the　most　pure；　the　most　elevating；　and　the　most　intense；　is　derived；　I
  maintain；　from　the　contemplation　of　the　Beautiful。　In　the　contemplation　of
  Beauty　we　alone　find　it　possible　to　attain　that　pleasurable　elevation；　or
  excitement　_of　the　soul；　_which　we　recognize　as　the　Poetic　Sentiment；　and
  which　is　so　easily　distinguished　from　Truth；　which　is　the　satisfaction　of
  the　Reason；　or　from　Passion；　which　is　the　excitement　of　the　heart。　I　make
  Beauty；　thereforeusing　the　word　as　inclusive　of　the　sublime　　I　make
  Beauty　the　province　of　the　poem；　simply　because　it　is　an　obvious　rule　of
  Art　that　effects　should　be　made　to　spring　as　directly　as　possible　from
  their　causes：　　no　one　as　yet　having　been　weak　enough　to　deny　that　the
  peculiar　elevation　in　question　is　at　least　_most　readily　_attainable　in
  the　poem。　It　by　no　means　follows；　however；　that　the　incitements　of
  Passion'　or　the　precepts　of　Duty；　or　even　the　lessons　of　Truth；　may　not　be
  introduced　into　a　poem；　and　with　advantage；　for　they　may　subserve
  incidentally；　in　various　ways；　the　general　purposes　of　the　work：　but　the
  true　artist　will　always　contrive　to　tone　them　down　in　proper　subjection　to
  that　_Beauty　_which　is　the　atmosphere　and　the　real　essence　of　the　poem。
  I　cannot　better　introduce　the　few　poems　which　I　shall　present　for　your
  consideration；　than　by　the　citation　of　the　Proem　to　Longfellow's　〃Waif〃：
  The　day　is　done；　and　the　darkness
  Falls　from　the　wings　of　Night；
  As　a　feather　is　wafted　downward
  From　an　Eagle　in　his　flight。
  I　see　the　lights　of　the　village
  Gleam　through　the　rain　and　the　mist；
  And　a　feeling　of　sadness　comes　o'er　me；
  That　my　soul　cannot　resist；
  A　feeling　of　sadness　and　longing；
  That　is　not　akin　to　pain；
  And　resembles　sorrow　only
  As　the　mist　resembles　the　rain。
  Come；　read　to　me　some　poem；
  Some　simple　and　heartfelt　lay；
  That　shall　soothe　this　restless　feeling；
  And　banish　the　thoughts　of　day。
  Not　from　the　grand　old　masters；
  Not　from　the　bards　sublime；
  Whose　distant　footsteps　echo
  Through　the　corridors　of　Time。
  For；　like　strains　of　martial　music；
  Their　mighty　thoughts　suggest
  Life's　endless　toil　and　endeavor；
  And　to…night　I　long　for　rest。
  Read　from　some　humbler　poet；
  Whose　songs　gushed　from　his　heart；
  As　showers　from　the　clouds　of　summer；
  Or　tears　from　the　eyelids　start；
  Who　through　long　days　of　labor；
  And　nights　devoid　of　ease；
  Still　heard　in　his　soul　the　music
  Of　wonderful　melodies。
  Such　songs　have　power　to　quiet
  The　restless　pulse　of　care；
  And　come　like　the　benediction
  That　follows　after　prayer。
  Then　read　from　the　treasured　volume
  The　poem　of　thy　choice；
  And　lend　to　the　rhyme　of　the　poet
  The　beauty　of　thy　voice。
  And　the　night　shall　be　filled　with　music；
  And　the　cares　that　infest　the　day
  Shall　fold　their　tents　like　the　Arabs；
  And　as　silently　steal　away。
  With　no　great　range　of　imagination；　these　lines　have　been　justly
  admired　for　their　delicacy　of　expression。　Some　of　the　images　are　very
  effective。　Nothing　can　be　better　than
  …　the　bards　sublime；
  Whose　distant　footsteps　echo
  Down　the　corridors　of　Time。
  The　idea　of　the　last　quatrain　is　also　very　effective。　The　poem　on　the
  whole；　however；　is　chiefly　to　be　admired　for　the　graceful　_insouciance　_of
  its　metre；　so　well　in　accordance　with　the　character　of　the　sentiments；　and
  especially　for　the　_ease　_of　the　general　manner。　This　〃ease〃　or
  naturalness；　in　a　literary　style；　it　has　long　been　the　fashion　to　regard
  as　ease　in　appearance　aloneas　a　point　of　really　difficult　attainment。
  But　not　so：a　natural　manner　is　difficult　only　to　him　who　should　never
  meddle　with　itto　the　unnatural。　It　is　but　the　result　of　writing　with　the
  understanding；　or　with　the　instinct；　that　_the　tone；　_in　composition；
  should　always　be　that　which　the　mass　of　mankind　would　adoptand　must
  perpetually　vary；　of　course；　with　the　occasion。　The　author　who；　after　the
  fashion　of　〃The　North　American　Review；〃　should　be　upon　_all　_occasions
  merely　〃quiet；〃　must　necessarily　upon　_many　_occasions　be　simply　silly；　or
  stupid；　and　has　no　more　right　to　be　considered　〃easy〃　or　〃natural〃　than　a
  Cockney　exquisite；　or　than　the　sleeping　Beauty　in　the　waxworks。
  Among　the　minor　poems　of　Bryant；　none　has　so　much　impressed　me　as　the　one
  which　he　entitles　〃June。〃　I　quote　only　a　portion　of　it：
  There；　through　the　long；　long　summer　hours；
  The　golden　light　should　lie；
  And　thick　young　herbs　and　groups　of　flowers
  Stand　in　their　beauty　by。
  The　oriole　should　build　and　tell
  His　love…tale；　c