She looked upon Henry with the most heart-felt tenderness.
"My eternity is indeed thy work," cried Henry, whilst the tears rolled down his blooming cheeks.
They embraced each other. Klingsohr caught them in his arms. "My children," he cried, "be faithful to each other unto death! Love and constancy will make your life eternal poesy."
CHAPTER VIII.
In the afternoon Klingsohr led to his room his new son, in whose happiness his mother and grandfather took the tenderest interest, honoring Matilda as his protecting spirit, and made him acquainted with his books. Afterward they spoke of poetry.
"I know not," said Klingsohr, "why the representation of nature as a poet is commonly considered poetry. She is not so at all times. Dull desire, stupid apathy and sluggishness, are in her, as in men, exposing qualities which wage a restless strife with poesy. This mighty battle would be a fine subject for a poem. Many lands and ages seem, like the majority of men, to stand entirely under the dominion of this enemy to poesy; in others, on the contrary, poesy is at home and everywhere visible. The periods of this battle are very worthy of the historian's notice, and its representation is a pleasant and profitable employment. It is usually the season of the poet's birth. Nothing is more disagreeable to its adversary than that she, herself being opposed to poesy, becomes a poetic personage, and often in the heat of the engagement changes weapons with poesy, and is violently struck by her own venomous darts; while, on the other hand, the wounds of poesy, which she receives from her own weapons, heal readily, and only serve to render her yet more charming and powerful."
"On the whole," said Henry, "war seems to me poetical. People fancy that they must fight for a possession no matter how miserable, and do not observe that the spirit of romance excites them to annihilate all useless baseness. They carry arms for the cause of poesy, and both hosts follow an invisible standard."
"In war," replied Klingsohr, "the primeval fluid is stirred up. New continents are to arise, new races to spring forth from the great dissolution. The true war is the war of religion; its direct end is destruction; and men's madness appears in its full dimensions. Many wars, particularly those which originate in national hate, belong to this class, and are real poems. Here true heroes are at home, who, being the noblest antitypes of poesy, are but earthly powers involuntarily penetrated by poesy. A poet, who at the same time were a hero, would be indeed a heavenly messenger; but our poetry is not equal to the work of representing him."
"How am I to understand that, dear father," said Henry. "Can any object be too lofty for poesy?"
"Certainly. We cannot on the whole speak for poesy itself, but only for her earthly means and instruments. If indeed there is for every single poet a proper district within which he must remain, in order not to lose all breath and vantage, then there is also for the whole sum of human powers a determinate boundary line to the capacity for representation; beyond which representation cannot retain the necessary strength or form, but loses itself in an empty, delusive nonentity. Particularly as a pupil, one cannot guard enough against these extravagances; since a lively fancy loves too well to fly to the extreme bounds, and arrogantly endeavors to seize upon and express the supersensual and exuberant. Riper experience first teaches us to shun this disproportion of objects, and to leave the investigation of what is simplest and loftiest to worldly wisdom. The older poet rises no higher than is needful to arrange, his vast stock in a comprehensible order, and he is careful to omit the manifoldness, which afforded him the requisite material, and also the necessary points of agreement. I might almost say that in every line chaos should shine through the well-clipped foliage of order. A graceful style merely renders the richness of the thought more comprehensible and agreeable; regular symmetry, on the contrary, has all the dryness of numbers. The best poesy lies very near us, and an ordinary matter is not seldom the object of its most tender love. With the poet, poetry is confined to limited instruments, and just so far becomes an art. Language especially has its fixed sphere. The compass of one's native tongue is yet narrower. By practice and reflection the poet learns to understand his own language. He knows exactly what he can accomplish by its aid, and will make no fruitless attempt to strain it beyond its powers. Seldom will he collect all its powers upon a single point; for otherwise he becomes wearisome, and even destroys the rich effect of a well applied exhibition of its strength. No poet, but a quack, aims at wonderful efforts."[See [Note III].]