------"Throw him on the steep
Of some loose hanging rock asleep:"

when Lear calls out in extreme anguish,

"Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend,
How much more hideous shew'st in a child
Than the sea-monster!"

--the passion of contempt in the one case, of terror in the other, and
of indignation in the last, is perfectly satisfied. We see the thing
ourselves, and shew it to others as we feel it to exist, and as, in
spite of ourselves, we are compelled to think of it. The imagination, by
thus embodying and turning them to shape, gives an obvious relief to the
indistinct and importunate cravings of the will.--We do not wish the
thing to be so; but we wish it to appear such as it is. For knowledge is
conscious power; and the mind is no longer, in this case, the dupe,
though it may be the victim of vice or folly.

Poetry is in all its shapes the language of the imagination and the
passions, of fancy and will. Nothing, therefore, can be more absurd than
the outcry which has been sometimes raised by frigid and pedantic
critics, for reducing the language of poetry to the standard of common
sense and reason: for the end and use of poetry, "both at the first and
now, was and is to hold the mirror up to nature," seen through the
medium of passion and imagination, not divested of that medium by means
of literal truth or abstract reason. The painter of history might as
well be required to represent the face of a person who has just trod
upon a serpent with the still-life expression of a common portrait, as
the poet to describe the most striking and vivid impressions which