not a parish in the world but has its parish-accent;--the rhythm or _tune_
to which the people there _sing_ what they have to say! Accent is a kind
of chanting; all men have accent of their own,--though they only _notice_
that of others. Observe too how all passionate language does of itself
become musical,--with a finer music than the mere accent; the speech of a
man even in zealous anger becomes a chant, a song. All deep things are
Song. It seems somehow the very central essence of us, Song; as if all the
rest were but wrappages and hulls! The primal element of us; of us, and of
all things. The Greeks fabled of Sphere-Harmonies: it was the feeling
they had of the inner structure of Nature; that the soul of all her voices
and utterances was perfect music. Poetry, therefore, we will call _musical
Thought_. The Poet is he who _thinks_ in that manner. At bottom, it turns
still on power of intellect; it is a man's sincerity and depth of vision
that makes him a Poet. See deep enough, and you see musically; the heart
of Nature _being_ everywhere music, if you can only reach it.

The _Vates_ Poet, with his melodious Apocalypse of Nature, seems to hold a
poor rank among us, in comparison with the _Vates_ Prophet; his function,
and our esteem of him for his function, alike slight. The Hero taken as
Divinity; the Hero taken as Prophet; then next the Hero taken only as Poet:
does it not look as if our estimate of the Great Man, epoch after epoch,
were continually diminishing? We take him first for a god, then for one
god-inspired; and now in the next stage of it, his most miraculous word
gains from us only the recognition that he is a Poet, beautiful
verse-maker, man of genius, or such like!--It looks so; but I persuade
myself that intrinsically it is not so. If we consider well, it will
perhaps appear that in man still there is the _same_ altogether peculiar
admiration for the Heroic Gift, by what name soever called, that there at
any time was.