POETRY
By J. C. Philpot
There is in poetry—we mean true poetry, something
inexpressibly charming to those with whose natural tastes it is in
accordance. To understand, admire, and love it, and much more to write it,
is a natural gift of comparatively rare occurrence, and which, even when
found, exists in very different degrees in different individuals. This
natural gift, whether confined to simply understanding and enjoying it, or
expanded into a power of poetical composition, may be cultivated and
improved by study and practice, and may be refined to a high degree by
industry and exercise, but can never be communicated by them where it does
not originally exist. In this it much resembles music and drawing. If there
be no natural ear for music, no practice can enable a person to sing
correctly; and if there be no natural taste for drawing, all instruction
will fail to make the pupil an artist.
So it is with poetry. No man can ever be a poet, in the
real sense of the word, who does not originally and naturally possess the
rare gift of a thoroughly poetical mind; and we much doubt if any one has
even a dim perception of the exquisite beauty of poetry, or any acquaintance
with the peculiar feelings that it kindles, unless his mental faculties are
of a similar cast. As a proof; two men shall read the same lines. To the
one, they shall make the blood leap in his veins, flush his cheek, fire his
eye, and melt his heart into tears. The other shall think them very good and
very pretty, but see and feel no more in them than in a page of Robinson
Crusoe. So two companions in travel shall see at the same moment, for the
first time, the majestic range of the Alps spread before them in all their
matchless grandeur. The one is speechless with rapture and admiration; the
other thinks them very pretty, but, being tired and hungry, thinks much more
about his dinner. Which of these two is the poet, which the man of prose?
As, then, some people are naturally incapable of understanding and admiring
a beautiful landscape, so others are naturally incapable of understanding
and admiring a beautiful poem.
But if to understand and enjoy poetry requires a special
gift, how much more is a larger endowment of the same peculiar faculty
needed to pour forth strains which shall at once proclaim their writer a
true and genuine poet, and not a mere versifier. In fact, it is not so much
one gift as an assemblage of many gifts, and these rarely united, that is
required to constitute a true poet. He must possess great and
original powers of thought, an active and thoroughly poetical imagination,
feelings highly sensitive and acute, affections deep and strong; and these
must be combined with a musical ear exquisitely attuned to sound, a rich and
varied vocabulary of language, and a thorough acquaintance with the laws of
metre and rhythm. His mind, by original constitution and long continued
study, must resemble a musical instrument of exquisite manufacture, which is
susceptible of every tone and responsive to every touch; and he must be a
skillful performer upon it, thoroughly acquainted with all its powers, and
able to evoke at will every note through its entire gamut. He must himself
feel, deeply feel, every thought that arises in his mind, and almost every
thought to which he gives utterance must be the vivid expression of this
feeling.
To move and stir the sluggish minds of others, he must
have his own mind moved and stirred to its lowest depths; and he must, as it
were, first bathe his words in the inmost recesses of his own heart, and
then bring them forth all dripping with the feelings by which he himself is
agitated. He should be able to clothe his ideas and feelings in the choicest
and most musical language; and the whole, both in design and composition,
should be under the control of a chaste and refined taste, so that nothing
gross or vulgar, low, far-fetched, or obscure, should mar the delicacy and
beauty of his thoughts and expressions. Though what he writes will often be
the fruit of the greatest labor, it should from its ease, appear thrown off
spontaneously and without the slightest effort; and, however highly polished
by continual corrections, his verse should show no trace of the file.
But the question at once arises, "If this is to be a
poet, where will you find one? You have set up a standard neither necessary
nor attainable." To set up a standard is one thing; to require full
compliance with it is another. It is with poetry as with every other product
of the human mind or hand. Unless we set up an ideal standard of beauty or
excellency, we can have no definite rules of judgment, nor any adequate and
trustworthy points of comparison; and without these, we are no judges
whatever whether such and such a poem is poetry, or such and such a writer
is a poet. And this is just the case with most readers. Having no standard
in their own minds, or any poetical taste of their own, they cannot
distinguish between mere verse and real poetry. Of course, in this as in
every other product of the human mind, there are degrees of excellence,
and a man may be a good poet who is not a great one.
In fact, the gifts required for first class poetry are so
great, that though the world has in all ages been flooded with verses, there
are scarcely a dozen great poets. Excellence in any suit is so rare that for
the same reason there never have been many great musical composers, or great
painters, or great sculptors, or great orators. But to take a kindred
instance; in music, there may be and are people who can sing very sweetly
and accurately, who are not first-rate singers, and individuals who can even
compose with melody and harmony, do not rise to the highest class of musical
composers, so in poetry there may be and are writers who are sufficiently
led to shine and to please who are not poets in the highest sense of the
word.
But it is time for us to leave the ground of poetry as
poetry, and speak of it as attuned and adapted to the utterance of
Christian thought and feeling. The hints we have dropped are meant to
show that poetry, whether secular or religious, must emanate from a peculiar
assemblage of original mental gifts, and cannot be learned like farming or
arithmetic, as well as to beat down that vain and conceited notion that
every copy of verses put forth by any or every scribbler is poetry. A man
may tag rhymes all his life, and leave behind him volumes of poems and piles
of manuscript, of which the first is only fit for the trunk maker, and the
last for the butter merchant. A poet is as different from a mere verse maker
as a Handel from an organ grinder, a Michael Angelo from a stone mason, or a
Raphael from a traveling portrait painter.
But what a proof of man's degradation and desperate
wickedness it is, that this noble gift of poetry, the highest exercise, in
one sense, of the intellectual faculty, the harmonious combination of the
most subtle and exquisite tastes, which should only find their truest
utterance in singing the high praises of God, should be prostituted, for the
most part to the service of the devil. Sin and Satan have seized the lyre,
which, as touched by the fingers of David, sounds the pure songs of Zion—and
have dragged it down from heaven to hell. Naturally fitted, as we see in
Holy Writ, to be a handmaid in the service of God, she has been made to
subserve the vilest passions of the human heart. Lust and
bloodshed, under the names of love and glory, have been her chosen
themes; and thousands have been stimulated into crime by her magic tones
chanted in the worship of these twin deities.
In our own days, for instance, what a dreadful influence
for evil has Lord Byron's poetry exercised upon the minds of thousands of
the young and imaginative. What gloomy infidelity, what hatred of all
restraint, what pride and selfishness, what contempt of everything holy and
spiritual, have his powerful verses engendered or nurtured in many a bosom.
Youth is the season for those deep impressions which influence a life;
and to a mind of poetical cast there is sometimes a force in one stanza of
his glowing verse, which, imprinting itself on the memory as in letters of
fire, burns and smoulders, until it gushes forth in lava streams of words
and actions. We are not speaking here at a venture, but of what we have seen
with our own eyes in days long gone by, for we have personally known those
who apparently owed their ruin, body and soul, to the influence of his
poems.
To the young and ardent of both sexes, to the romantic
and imaginative, to the meditative and melancholy, especially when under the
influence of that strongest of all human passions, love—how seductive is
that poetry, which, in all the magic of verse, reveals and embodies their
deepest and most secret feelings; and how almost at will the enchanter can
beguile their thoughts and desires into the channel of his own headlong
passions. What the Bible is to a child of God their idolized poet is to
them. They hang over its pages, learn by heart its lines, are continually
repeating to themselves favorite passages, until they drink into the very
spirit of the writer, and adopt him as their model and guide.
Would that religious poetry exercised the same
influence upon the children of God that secular poetry has exercised in all
ages upon the children of this world. To a certain extent, and in a
different way, we thankfully acknowledge that it does. The blessing, for
instance, that Hart's hymns have been made to the church of God is
incalculable. We name him, because, besides his rich and deep experience,
and spiritual unction and power, he evidently possessed a large share of
poetical gift. That there is something in the very form and language of
poetry is indisputable; for else how is it that a verse, or line of a hymn,
if it describe the experience of the soul, produces an effect which the same
thought would not produce were it expressed in simple prose? The
circumstance cannot be well explained, but the fact remains that there is
something in the poetry itself, through which, as an instrument, the Blessed
Spirit touches and melts the heart.
But independent of their qualities as poetry, spiritual
and experimental compositions in verse have a power peculiar to themselves.
Tried indeed by the standard that we have set up, few of our most admired
hymns can be called poetry—at least, not if Shakespeare, Milton, and Byron
are poets. But they possess what these poets had not—a secret power over the
soul, a power contrasted with which, weighed in a spiritual balance, all
their gifts are as valueless as time compared with eternity. When we have
read the most beautiful compositions of earthly poetry, what impression do
they usually leave behind? One so abhorrent to the spirit of Christ, that,
in a spiritual frame, a Christian cannot read or even look at them.
We are conscious to ourselves of two distinct feelings
and tastes—one that would revel in poetry such as we have attempted to
describe—the other that would turn away from its carnality and worldliness
with abhorrence; one that would despise the baldness of many a hymn dear to
the church of God, the other that would feel and love the experience which
it unfolds. For this reason, we feel it exceedingly difficult to appreciate
poetry strictly religious. Having read in former days so much of first class
poetry, as well as being naturally fond of it, we are too much inclined
still to read religious verses as literary compositions, and to weigh them
in the same balance as Homer or Shakespeare; and though our spiritual mind
calls out against it, and would look at them with gracious eyes, yet we own
there is a continual tendency to demand in them some of those qualifications
which give to secular poetry not merely its charm but its very being. We
offer this explanation and apology if we should seem to have dwelt too long,
or insisted too much, upon poetry as distinct from religion.
Indeed, as poetry deals so much with mere natural
feelings, and draws its deepest and most intoxicating draughts, not from the
well of Bethlehem or the pool of Siloam, but from the turbid springs of
human passion, a spiritual poet is almost cut off from the main fountain of
poetic thought and expression. A carnal poet may wander at will, unchecked
by conscience or godly fear, amid every field of human thought and passion,
and pluck flowers for his poetic wreath from the very brink of hell. But a
Christian poet can dwell only on those themes which the Holy Spirit has
sanctified, and every thought and expression must be under the powerful
restraints of a conscience made tender in God's fear.
Debarred from the use of "strange fire," the writers
before us have rather sought to fill their censers with coals from the
brazen altar. Their aim is nobler and higher than any carnal poet ever
dreamed of; and if they have clothed their thoughts and feelings in verse,
it is not to bind their brows with wreaths of poetic laurel, but to express
their own experience of sorrow and joy for the comfort and encouragement of
the people of God. As gracious men, and as personal friends, both of them
have a claim upon our affectionate sympathy and interest; and if we cannot
rank them in the highest class as poets, we are glad to esteem and value
both them and their productions as imbued with the spirit of the gospel.
As poetical contributions, Mr. Sears' compositions
certainly claim the higher place, and are generally written with much ease
of versification, and force and warmth of expression. Though his main object
was doubtless to give utterance to his own feelings and desires, yet he has
evidently paid much attention to the structure of his verse and the
correctness of his rhymes. In some of his verses there is an easy, animated
flow, and a command of poetic imagery and expression which evince a natural
gift in that direction. But it has higher qualifications. There is a
prayerful spirit, mingled with confession, breathing through them, which
makes them very suitable to the tender in heart and contrite in spirit; and
though doctrinal truth is not prominently put forward, yet, to use John
Newton's figure, it sweetens the whole.
The people of God instinctively feel and recognize what
is spoken or written under divine influences and as to them that alone is
true eloquence which speaks from heart to heart, so that to them is alone
true poetry which is imbued with unction and savor, and reaches their
feelings and consciences.
The Christian poet leads to Gethsemane and Calvary, not
to the regions of sin, death, and despair. Who would choose a Byron's fame
to have a Byron's end? Happier far are our friends who have devoted their
poetic powers to the service of the sanctuary, and, instead of seeking the
applause of dying worms, have made their end and aim the glory of God.
Songs in the Wilderness
. By the late William Brown,
Minister of the Gospel—(July, 1868.)
How continually it happens that good men and approved
ministers of God's word pass away and leave no memorial behind them beyond
that affectionate remembrance which still remains in the hearts of those by
whom they were personally known, or to whom their ministry was owned and
blessed. It is pleasing, then, when we can possess some memorial of them of
a more fixed and permanent character than those reminiscences which grow
weaker and weaker every day.
We are glad, therefore, to welcome this little memorial
of so worthy and excellent a man, and of so acceptable a minister to those
who knew and loved the truth as our dear and esteemed friend, the late Mr.
Brown. In this little book we have a twofold memorial of him, each in its
way singularly expressive; for we have in it not only a photograph of his
face and person, strikingly like him, as the frontispiece, but we have a
photograph also, as clear and as striking, of his mind. Thus there meets us,
at the opening of this nicely gotten-up book, the representation of his
outward man, strongly recalling to our remembrance his manly, intelligent,
and yet subdued features, and in his poems as clear and vivid representation
of the features of his inward man.
Besides the clear and sweet line of experience which runs
in a very marked manner through these "Songs in the Wilderness," there is
more of a poetic vein in them than we often find in the compositions of good
men, who would almost seem to think that such minor considerations as
poetical language and correct rhymes need scarcely to be attended to in
comparison with clear statements of doctrinal truth, and a bringing forward
of living, sound, and gracious experience. Were, indeed, the choice to lie
between poetry and experience, between what Mr. Hart calls "tinkling sound"
and "rich savory meat," we could not for a moment hesitate which to prefer.
But why should we not have both, or at least why should real poetry be
thought by some out of place in the setting forth of God's truth? In ancient
days, when the Holy Spirit inspired godly men to sound forth God's praise,
he did not disdain to clothe divine thoughts in a poetic dress. Indeed, so
striking is the poetry of the Old Testament that worldly critics to whom the
theme is distasteful have been compelled in every age to acknowledge the
beauty of the form. No, even in later days, when such inspiration has ceased
as moved the men of God whose compositions are recorded in the inspired
word, we yet often find gracious thoughts and feelings, to use Milton's
expression, "wedded to immortal verse."
It is worthy also of observation, that almost all our
most approved hymn-writers, and almost all whose compositions have found a
permanent place in the books and hearts of those who know and love the
truth, possessed considerable poetical gifts. There is a charm in true
poetry quite independent of mere poetical language, though, of course, that
has considerable effect. This sublimity of thought, aptness of comparison,
beauty of figure, vividness of illustration, are all distinct from the mere
poetical form of rhyme or metre, and of a much higher character, for they
remain when these are lost. We have a striking illustration of this in the
Scriptures, those parts of them we mean which are strictly poetical. None of
them have the forms of our modern poetry, such as rhyme, and metre, but how
full they are of all the highest and truest characteristics of true poetry.
Take, for instance, the song of Moses at the Red Sea. What poetic fire
animates it! with what strength and vividness of expression, what striking
contrasts, and what surprising force and beauty are the thoughts and ideas
expressed! Observe the following verse—"And with the blast of your nostrils
the waters were gathered together, the floods stood upright as a heap, and
the depths were congealed in the heart of the sea." (Exod. 15:8.) We seem to
see the waters gathering together at the blast of God's nostrils; we seem to
behold the floods standing upright as a heap, and the depths congealing
themselves in the heart of the sea. But the enemy appears in sight; we see
the chariots and the horsemen, and we hear their language, anticipating a
speedy and thorough triumph—"The enemy said, I will pursue, I will overtake,
I will divide the spoil; my lust shall be satisfied upon them; I will draw
my sword, my hand shall destroy them." (Exod. 15:9.) "I will pursue, I will
overtake, I will divide the spoil." What a determination! "My lust shall be
satisfied upon them." I will take full vengeance, and bathe my sword in
their blood. We seem to see them pressing on and drawing their swords, as
they rushed through the heaped up floods and the congealed depths.
Now observe the contrast—"You blew with your wind, the
sea covered them; they sank as lead in the mighty waters!" (Exod. 15:10.)
How we seem to hear the roaring of the wind and see the sea loosening itself
on each side! See how it covers them; see how they sink as lead in the
mighty waters. Then hear the loud burst of holy triumph—"Who is like unto
you, O Lord, among the gods? who is like you, glorious in holiness, fearful
in praises, doing wonders?" Is not this true poetry, the best and highest
form of it? Will our readers kindly excuse this digression into which we
have been drawn by our desire to show that the highest Scripture truth may
be clothed with the greatest poetic beauty, and that the soul of poetry may
exist where we have not the body?
It is in vain, of course, to compare human compositions
with the inspired word of God; but let none think that true poetry is out of
place in a hymn book.