LECTURE III.

CORNEILLE.

DIFFERENT STYLES OF POETRY: LYRIC, EPIC, AND DRAMATIC. CID; HORATII; POLYEUCTE.— CHRISTIAN CHARACTER OF

HIS HEROES.

So far as poetry is susceptible of divisions, we should say, that it consists of three principal styles; the lyric, the dramatic, and the epic.

These divisions are far from being always scrupulously observed; for, it is often very difficult to say in what class a piece shall be placed. Poetry is so essentially free in its nature, that it would cease to be poetry, if it always submitted with a good grace to the classifications which analysis requires. Yet a writer, who has a piece of considerable length, is permitted to assign it to a particular class, according to the general tone which pervades the whole.

This general and characteristic tone of a poetic production is itself determined by the position which the poet takes in reference to his work. Before hazarding penetrate into the

any classification whatever, we must

very heart of the poet, and there listen attentively, at

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the mysterious hour of inspiration, to the throbbings of his heart. Only by being thus introduced into his interior self, and wresting from him his secret, can we give a name to his songs.

muses.

This I now essay to do. The enterprise, I admit, is one of the boldest; and to carry it successfully through, it would be necessary to have communion with the We can hardly pretend to discover the secrets of the sanctuary, when we do not wear the livery; and are, in the language of Boileau, "entire strangers in the Aonian valley." Nevertheless, though it be a profanation, we must enter, if we would understand them; for true poets disdain the work of classification and analysis, and will never explain themselves.

Our business then is, to surprise the poet in his hours of solitude; when the verses which so charm us, escape harmoniously from his heart. For this purpose I shall not ask you to glide stealthily behind his chair to seize the glowing verses, while they are yet warm from his pen. It is not in a study, surrounded by a rich library, that you can snatch from the muse her secrets. Go rather to nature, and try to comprehend the lively and animated, though silent dialogue, which passes between her and the poet.

Evening approaches, the long shadows of the mountains stretch across the valleys; and the silvery sound of bells announces the flock, which comes at the call of the shepherd, to prepare for repose. The husbandmen, taking advantage of the last rays of the setting sun, hasten to secure the abundant harvest with which God has rewarded their labors. The whole neighborhood is there to join in the general rejoicing; the happy children press eagerly around their mothers, sincerely believing their aid is needed; the joyous company enter under the

thatched roof with singing. However, all is not finished. I have thus far written as a historian; and it is not to such every-day and homely scenes that I wish to draw your attention. These things, which we have so often seen, no longer strike us; we need to be taught their value; and this is the poet's mission. Like us, he was present; but he saw, he heard, and, above all, he felt differently. Nature has assumed a particular form before his eyes; his sensitive soul has beheld in this scene a touching picture of rural happiness. Full of sympathy, he puts himself in the place of these laborers; he appreciates their happiness more than they do themselves; and, full of this idea, and still under the influence of the impressions which nature has made on him, he must utter what he feels; he must put himself in harmony with all that surrounds him; he talks, he sings, and his verses faithfully represent the various emotions which agitate his soul. Thus is the Idyl

born.

But let us go some steps further with our poet. Let us rejoin him on this by-path. He now seems to be flying from the beautiful scenes he has just held up for our admiration; he hangs his head; his features tell us, that he no longer experiences that placid joy which just now lulled him so pleasantly. It is that the charming spectacle which presents itself to his eye, has awakened sad recollections: the places through which he passes are familiar, alas! too familiar. He knows the name of all the valleys; each path is associated with something dear; he has often wandered in these woods, which have witnessed his reveries. But then, he was not alone; it was to another he confided all his schemes of happiness; that other is now far away; all the vows are forgotten, and no one promise has been fulfilled.

Then the disposition of his soul changes completely. Nature is always the same, but his language is different; sadness has seized his heart; the scene appears to him in another light; the wind playing in the trees makes him sigh; every thing contributes to open the wound of his heart afresh. The forest, with its shadows, seems to assume the garb of mourning, and to sigh with him. These recollections, so full of sadness and regret, which the view of these places awakens, will produce a touching Elegy. The poet, in his roving course, meets a brook; and thus he interprets the murmur of its waters:

"Oh! list to those moans, says the rill,
Now wafted from over yon hill.
'Tis part of myself sighing there.
Then, traveller, go on thy way;
And thus to the gods humbly pray;
My loved one do not from me tear."

Leonard.

Does he seat himself for a moment's repose, the lightest breeze annoys him, by recalling his sufferings:

"The zephyrs and streams heard us plighting our troth;
Both swearing no change in our love to allow.

The zephyrs and streams that recorded our oath,
Have gone, but not left me one line of that vow."

If the poet is free from all sad recollections; if you suppose him happy, nature will have yet another language for him. He will search for adventures; and his capricious imagination will play a thousand tricks; he