That the extent of a poetical work is ceteris paribus, the measure of its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we thus state it, a proposition sufficiently absurd—­yet we are indebted for it to the Quarterly Reviews.  Surely there can be nothing in mere size, abstractly considered—­there can be nothing in mere bulk, so far as a volume is concerned, which has so continuously elicited admiration from these saturnine pamphlets!  A mountain, to be sure, by the mere sentiment of physical magnitude which it conveys, does impress us with a sense of the sublime—­but no man is impressed after this fashion by the material grandeur of even “The Columbiad.”  Even the Quarterlies have not instructed us to be so impressed by it. As yet, they have not insisted on our estimating Lamartine by the cubic foot, or Pollock by the pound—­but what else are we to infer from their continual prating about “sustained effort”?  If, by “sustained effort,” any little gentleman has accomplished an epic, let us frankly commend him for the effort—­if this indeed be a thing commendable—­but let us forbear praising the epic on the effort’s account.  It is to be hoped thai common sense, in the time to come, will prefer deciding upon a work of Art rather by the impression it makes—­by the effect it produces—­than by the time it took to impress the effect, or by the amount of “sustained effort” which had been found necessary in effecting the impression.  The fact is, that perseverance is one thing and genius quite another—­nor can all the Quarterlies in Christendom confound them.  By and by, this proposition, with many which I have been just urging, will be received as self-evident.  In the meantime, by being generally condemned as falsities, they will not be essentially damaged as truths.

On the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be improperly brief.  Undue brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism.  A very short poem, while now and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces a profound or enduring effect.  There must be the steady pressing down of the stamp upon the wax.  De Beranger has wrought innumerable things, pungent and spirit-stirring, but in general they have been too imponderous to stamp themselves deeply into the public attention, and thus, as so many feathers of fancy, have been blown aloft only to be whistled down the wind.

A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity in depressing a poem, in keeping it out of the popular view, is afforded by the following exquisite little Serenade: 

  I arise from dreams of thee
    In the first sweet sleep of night
  When the winds are breathing low,
    And the stars are shining bright. 
  I arise from dreams of thee,
    And a spirit in my feet
  Has led me—­who knows how?—­
    To thy chamber-window, sweet!

  The wandering airs they faint
    On the dark the silent stream—­
  The champak odors fail
    Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
  The nightingale’s complaint,
    It dies upon her heart,
  As I must die on thine,
    O, beloved as thou art!