| "Comrades mine and I in the midst, and their memory ever to keep, for the dead I loved so well, |
| For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands—and this for his dear sake, |
| Lilac and star and bird twined with the chant of my soul, |
| There in the fragrant pines and the cedars dusk and dim." |
This is real poetry, and yet while we yield to the charm we are conscious that it is made up of the old familiar elements.
Tennyson's apology to a utilitarian age was not needed:—
| "Perhaps some modern touches here and there |
| Redeemed it from the charge of nothingness." |
The "modern touches" we can spare. The modern life we have always with us; but it is a rare privilege to enjoy the best things of the past. It is the poet who is the minister of this fine grace. The historian tells us what men of the past did, the philosopher tells us how their civilizations developed and decayed; we smile at their superstitions, and pride ourselves upon our progress. But the ethereal part has vanished, that which made their very superstitions beautiful and cast a halo over their struggles. These are the elements out of which the poet creates his world, into which we may enter. In the order of historic development chivalry must give way before democracy, and loyalty to the king must fade before the increasing sense of liberty and equality; but the highest ideals of chivalry may remain. Imaginative and romantic poetry has this high mission to preserve what otherwise would be lost. It lifts the mind above the daily routine into the region of pure joy. Whatever necessary changes take place in the world we find, in
| "All lovely tales which we have heard or read, |
| An endless fountain of immortal drink, |
| Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink." |
I have said that one may be a true poet without having any very important thought to communicate, but it must be said that most of the great poets have been serious thinkers as well. They have had their philosophy of life, their thoughts about nature and about human duty and destiny. It is the function of the poet not only to create for us an ideal world and to fill it with ideal creatures, but also to reveal to us the ideal element in the actual world.
"I do not know what poetical is," says Audrey. "Is it honest in deed and word? Is it a true thing?" We must not answer with Touchstone: "No, truly! for the truest poetry is the most feigning."
The poetical interpretation of the world is not feigning; it is a true thing,—the truest thing of which we can know. The grace and sublimity which we see through the poet's eyes are real. We must, however, still insist on our main contention. The poet, if he is to hold us, must always be a poet. His thought must be in solution, and not appear as a dull precipitate of prose. He may be philosophical, but he must not philosophize. He may be moral, but he must not moralize. He may be religious, but let him spare his homilies.