Not so the great
psalm of the republic. Here the theme is creative, and has vista.
Whatever stagnates in the flat of custom or obedience or legislation,
the great poet never stagnates. Obedience does not master him, he
masters it. High up out of reach he stands, turning a concentrated
light--he turns the pivot with his finger--he baffles the swiftest
runners as he stands, and easily overtakes and envelopes them. The
time straying toward infidelity and confections and persiflage he
withholds by steady faith. Faith is the antiseptic of the soul--it
pervades the common people and preserves them--they never give up
believing and expecting and trusting. There is that indescribable
freshness and unconsciousness about an illiterate person, that humbles
and mocks the power of the noblest expressive genius. The poet sees
for a certainty how one not a great artist may be just as sacred and
perfect as the greatest artist.
The power to destroy or remould is freely used by the greatest poet,
but seldom the power of attack. What is past is past. If he does not
expose superior models, and prove himself by every step he takes, he
is not what is wanted. The presence of the great poet conquers--not
parleying, or struggling, or any prepared attempts. Now he has passed
that way, see after him! There is not left any vestige of despair,
or misanthropy, or cunning, or exclusiveness, or the ignominy of a
nativity or color, or delusion of hell or the necessity of hell--and
no man thenceforward shall be degraded for ignorance or weakness or
sin.
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