rivet their attention, and to excite their interest and sympathy. In this
respect the poet's occupation coincides with that of the orator. How then
does the latter attain his end? By perspicuity, rapidity, and energy.
Whatever exceeds the ordinary measure of patience or comprehension he must
diligently avoid. Moreover, when a number of men are assembled together,
they mutually distract each other's attention whenever their eyes and ears
are not drawn to a common object without and beyond themselves.

Hence the dramatic poet, as well as the orator, must from the very
commencement, by strong impressions, transport his hearers out of
themselves, and, as it were, take bodily possession of their attention.
There is a species of poetry which gently stirs a mind attuned to solitary
contemplation, as soft breezes elicit melody from the Aeolian harp.
However excellent this poetry may be in itself, without some other
accompaniments its tones would be lost on the stage. The melting
_harmonica_ is not calculated to regulate the march of an army, and
kindle its military enthusiasm. For this we must have piercing
instruments, but above all a strongly-marked rhythm, to quicken the
pulsation and give a more rapid movement to the animal spirits. The grand
requisite in a drama is to make this rhythm perceptible in the onward
progress of the action. When this has once been effected, the poet may all
the sooner halt in his rapid career, and indulge the bent of his own
genius. There are points, when the most elaborate and polished style, the
most enthusiastic lyrics, the most profound thoughts and remote allusions,
the smartest coruscations of wit, and the most dazzling flights of a
sportive or ethereal fancy, are all in their place, and when the willing
audience, even those who cannot entirely comprehend them, follow the whole
with a greedy ear, like music in unison with their feelings. Here the
poet's great art lies in availing himself of the effect of contrasts,
which enable him at one time to produce calm repose, profound