saying, that it is at least
better than our second-hand imitations of others. Our understanding (such
as it is, and must remain to be good for anything) is not a thoroughfare
for common places, smooth as the palm of one's hand, but full of knotty
points and jutting excrescences, rough, uneven, overgrown with brambles;
and I like this aspect of the mind (as some one said of the country),
where nature keeps a good deal of the soil in her own hands. Perhaps the
genius of our poetry has more of Pan than of Apollo; "but Pan is a God,
Apollo is no more!"

II

SPENSER

Spenser flourished in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, and was sent with Sir
John Davies into Ireland, of which he has left behind him some tender
recollections in his description of the bog of Allan, and a record in an
ably written paper, containing observations on the state of that country
and the means of improving it, which remain in full force to the present
day. Spenser died at an obscure inn in London, it is supposed in
distressed circumstances. The treatment he received from Burleigh is well
known. Spenser, as well as Chaucer, was engaged in active life; but the
genius of his poetry was not active: it is inspired by the love of ease,
and relaxation from all the cares and business of life. Of all the poets,
he is the most poetical. Though much later than Chaucer, his obligations
to preceding writers were less. He has in some measure borrowed the plan
of his poem (as a number of distinct narratives) from Ariosto; but he has
engrafted upon it an exuberance of fancy, and an endless voluptuousness of
sentiment, which are not to be found in the Italian writer. Farther,
Spenser is even more of an inventor in the subject-matter. There is an
originality, richness, and variety in his allegorical personages and
fictions, which almost vies with the splendor of the ancient mythology. If
Ariosto transports us into the regions of romance, Spenser's poetry is all
fairy-land. In Ariosto, we walk upon the ground, in a company, gay,
fantastic, and adventurous enough. In Spenser, we wander in another
world, among ideal beings. The poet takes and lays us in the lap of a
lovelier nature, by the sound of softer streams, among greener hills and
fairer valleys. He paints nature, not as we find it, but as we expected to
find it; and fulfils the delightful promise of our youth. He waves his
wand of enchantment--and at once embodies airy beings, and throws a
delicious veil