The sense thus remains prosaic. It is a caterpillar with wings, and
not yet a butterfly. In the poet's mind, the fact has gone quite over
into the new element of thought, and has lost all that is exuvial.
This generosity abides with Shakspeare. We say, from the truth and
closeness of his pictures, that he knows the lesson by heart. Yet there
is not a trace of egotism.
One more royal trait properly belongs to the poet. I mean his
cheerfulness, without which no man can be a poet,--for beauty is his
aim. He loves virtue, not for its obligation, but for its grace: he
delights in the world, in man, in woman, for the lovely light that
sparkles from them. Beauty, the spirit of joy and hilarity, he sheds
over the universe. Epicurus relates, that poetry hath such charms that
a lover might forsake his mistress to partake of them. And the true
bards have been noted for their firm and cheerful temper. Homer lies
in sunshine; Chaucer is glad and erect; and Saadi says, "It was rumored
abroad that I was penitent; but what had I to do with repentance?" Not
less sovereign and cheerful,--much more sovereign and cheerful is the
tone of Shakspeare.
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