A congruity was
observable in the accoutrements of the Ouphe, and we had no trouble in
forming a distinct conception of his appearance when so accoutred. But
the most vivid powers of Comparison can attach no definitive idea to
even "the loveliest form of light," when habited in a mantle of
"rolled purple tied with threads of dawn and buttoned with a star,"
and sitting at the same time under a rainbow with "beamlet" eyes and a
visage of "lily roon."
But if these things evince no Ideality in their author, do they
not excite it in others?- if so, we must conclude, that without
being himself imbued with the Poetic Sentiment, he has still succeeded
in writing a fine poem- a supposition as we have before endeavored
to show, not altogether paradoxical. Most assuredly we think not. In
the case of a great majority of readers the only sentiment aroused
by compositions of this order is a species of vague wonder at the
writer's ingenuity, and it is this indeterminate sense of wonder which
passes but too frequently current for the proper influence of the
Poetic power. For our own part we plead guilty to a predominant
sense of the ludicrous while occupied in the perusal of the poem
before us- a sense whose promptings we sincerely and honestly
endeavored to quell, perhaps not altogether successfully, while
penning our compend of the narrative.
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