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To stop the loud pursuers in their yell;

And sometime sorteth with the herd of deer:

Danger deviseth shifts, wit waits on fear.

“For there his smell with others' being mingled,

The hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt,

Ceasing their clamorous cry, till they have singled

With much ado, the cold fault cleanly out,

Then do they spend their mouths; echo replies,

As if another chase were in the skies.

“By this poor Wat far off, upon a hill,

Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear,

To harken if his foes pursue him still:

Anon their loud alarums he doth hear,

And now his grief may be compared well

To one sore-sick, that hears the passing bell.

“Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch

Turn, and return, indenting with the way:

Each envious briar his weary legs doth scratch,

Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay.

For misery is trodden on by many,

And being low, never relieved by any.”

Venus and Adonis.

And the preceding description:—

“But lo! from forth a copse that neighbours by,

A breeding jennet, lusty, young and proud,” &c.

is much more admirable, but in parts less fitted for quotation.

Moreover Shakespeare had shown that he possessed fancy, considered as the faculty of bringing together images dissimilar in the main by some one point or more of likeness, as in such a passage as this:—

“Full gently now she takes him by the hand,

A lily prisoned in a jail of snow,

Or ivory in an alabaster band:

So white a friend ingirts so white a foe!”—Ib.

And still mounting the intellectual ladder, he had as unequivocally proved the indwelling in his mind of imagination, or the power by which one image or feeling is made to modify many others, and by a sort of fusion to force many into one;—that which afterwards showed itself in such might and energy in Lear, where the deep anguish of a father spreads the feeling of ingratitude and cruelty over the very elements of heaven;—and which, combining many circumstances into one moment of consciousness, tends to produce that ultimate end of all human thought and human feeling, unity, and thereby the reduction of the spirit to its principle and fountain, who is alone truly one. Various are the workings of this the greatest faculty of the human mind, both passionate and tranquil. In its tranquil and purely pleasurable operation, it acts chiefly by creating out of many things, as they would have appeared in the description of an ordinary mind, detailed in unimpassioned succession, a oneness, even as nature, the greatest of poets, acts upon us, when we open our eyes upon an extended prospect. Thus the flight of Adonis in the dusk of the evening:—

“Look! how a bright star shooteth from the sky;

So glides he in the night from Venus' eye!”

How many images and feelings are here brought together without effort and without discord, in the beauty of Adonis, the rapidity of his flight, the yearning, yet hopelessness, of the enamoured gazer, while a shadowy ideal character is thrown over the whole! Or this power acts by impressing the stamp of humanity, and of human feelings, on inanimate or mere natural objects:—

“Lo! here the gentle lark, weary of rest,

From his moist cabinet mounts up on high,

And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast

The sun ariseth in his majesty,

Who doth the world so gloriously behold,

The cedar-tops and hills seem burnish'd gold.”

Or again, it acts by so carrying on the eye of the reader as to make him almost lose the consciousness of words,—to make him see every thing flashed, as Wordsworth has grandly and appropriately said:—

“Flashed upon the inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;”—

and this without exciting any painful or laborious attention, without any anatomy of description (a fault not uncommon in descriptive poetry),—but with the sweetness and easy movement of nature. This energy is an absolute essential of poetry, and of itself would constitute a poet, though not one of the highest class;—it is, however, a most hopeful symptom, and the Venus and Adonis is one continued specimen of it.

In