* * * * *

There is one other trait of the Poet’s style which I must briefly notice.  It is the effect of some one leading thought or predominant feeling in silently modifying the language, and drawing in sympathetic words and phrases by unmarked threads of association.  Thus in the hero’s description of Valeria, in Coriolanus, v. 3: 

          “The noble sister of Publicola,
    The moon of Rome; chaste as the icicle,
    That’s curded by the frost from purest snow,
    And hangs on Dian’s temple.”

Here, of course, the leading thought is chastity; and observe how, as by a kind of silent sympathy, all the words and images are selected and toned in perfect unison with that thought, so that the whole may be said literally to relish of nothing else.  Something of the same, though in a manner perhaps still better, because less pronounced, occurs in As You Like It, ii. 1, where, the exiled Duke having expressed his pain that the deer, “poor dappled fools, being native burghers of this desert city,” should on their own grounds “have their round haunches gor’d,” one of the attendant lords responds: 

                         “Indeed, my lord,
    The melancholy Jaques grieves at that. 
    To-day, my Lord of Amiens and myself
    Did steal behind him, as he lay along
    Under an oak whose antique root peeps out
    Upon the brook that brawls along this wood;
    To the which place a poor sequester’d stag,
    That from the hunter’s aim had ta’en a hurt,
    Did come to languish:  and indeed, my lord,
    The wretched animal heav’d forth such groans,
    That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat
    Almost to bursting; and the big round tears
    Cours’d one another down his innocent nose
    In piteous chase; and thus the hairy fool,
    Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,
    Stood on th’ extremest verge of the swift brook,
    Augmenting it with tears.”

Here the predominant feeling of the speaker is that of kindred or half-brotherhood with the deer; and such words as languish, groans, coat, tears, innocent, and hairy fool, dropping along so quietly, impart a sort of semi-humanizing tinge to the language, so that the very pulse of his feeling seems beating in its veins.

The Poet has a great many passages from which this feature might be illustrated.  And it often imparts a very peculiar charm to his poetry;—­a charm the more winning, and the more wholesome too, for being, I will not say unobtrusive, but hardly perceptible; acting like a soft undertone accompaniment of music, which we are kept from noticing by the delicate concert of thought and feeling it insensibly kindles and feeds within us.  Thus the Poet touches and rallies all our most hidden springs of delight to his purpose, and makes them unconsciously tributary to the refreshment of the hour; stealing fine inspirations into us, which work their effect upon the soul without prating of their presence, and not unlike the virtue that lets not the left hand know what the right hand doeth.  And all this, let me tell you, is a very different thing from merely making “the sound an echo to the sense,”—­as much better too as it is different.