------“Oh now, for ever
Farewel the tranquil mind.   Farewel content;
Farewel the plumed troops and the big war,
That make ambition virtue!   Oh farewel! 
Farewel the neighing steed, and the shrill trump,
The spirit-stirring drum, th’ ear-piercing fife,
The royal banner, and all quality,
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war: 
And O you mortal engines, whose rude throats
Th’ immortal Jove’s dread clamours counterfeit,
Farewel!  Othello’s occupation’s gone!”

How his passion lashes itself up and swells and rages like a tide in its sounding course, when in answer to the doubts expressed of his returning love, he says,

      “Never, Iago.  Like to the Pontic sea,
      Whose icy current and compulsive course
      Ne’er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on
      To the Propontic and the Hellespont: 
      Even so my bloody thoughts, with violent pace,
      Shall ne’er look back, ne’er ebb to humble love,
      Till that a capable and wide revenge
      Swallow them up.”—­

The climax of his expostulation afterwards with Desdemona is at that line [sic],

      “But there where I had garner’d up my heart,
      To be discarded thence!”—­

One mode in which the dramatic exhibition of passion excites our sympathy without raising our disgust is, that in proportion as it sharpens the edge of calamity and disappointment, it strengthens the desire of good.  It enhances our consciousness of the blessing, by making us sensible of the magnitude of the loss.  The storm of passion lays bare and shews us the rich depths of the human soul:  the whole of our existence, the sum total of our passions and pursuits, of that which we desire and that which we dread, is brought before us by contrast; the action and re-action are equal; the keenness of immediate suffering only gives us a more intense aspiration after, and a more intimate participation with the antagonist world of good; makes us drink deeper of the cup of human life; tugs at the heart-strings; loosens the pressure about them; and calls the springs of thought and feeling into play with tenfold force.

Impassioned poetry is an emanation of the moral and intellectual part of our nature, as well as of the sensitive—­of the desire to know, the will to act, and the power to feel; and ought to appeal to these different parts of our constitution, in order to be perfect.  The domestic or prose tragedy, which is thought to be the most natural, is in this sense the least so, because it appeals almost exclusively to one of these faculties, our sensibility.  The tragedies of Moore and Lillo, for this reason, however affecting at the time, oppress and lie like a dead weight upon the mind, a load of misery which it is unable to throw off:  the tragedy of Shakspeare, which is true poetry, stirs our inmost affections; abstracts evil from itself by combining it with all the forms of imagination, and with the deepest workings of the heart, and rouses the whole man within us.