If every great poet with whose writings men are familiar, in the highest exercise of his genius, before he can be thoroughly enjoyed, has to call forth and to communicate power, this service, in a still greater degree, falls upon an original writer, at his first appearance in the world.—­Of genius the only proof is, the act of doing well what is worthy to be done, and what was never done before:  Of genius, in the fine arts, the only infallible sign is the widening the sphere of human sensibility, for the delight, honour, and benefit of human nature.  Genius is the introduction of a new element into the intellectual universe:  or, if that be not allowed, it is the application of powers to objects on which they had not before been exercised, or the employment of them in such a manner as to produce effects hitherto unknown.  What is all this but an advance, or a conquest, made by the soul of the poet?  Is it to be supposed that the reader can make progress of this kind, like an Indian prince or general—­stretched on his palanquin, and borne by his slaves?  No; he is invigorated and inspirited by his leader, in order that he may exert himself; for he cannot proceed in quiescence, he cannot be carried like a dead weight.  Therefore to create taste is to call forth and bestow power, of which knowledge is the effect; and there lies the true difficulty.

As the pathetic participates of an animal sensation, it might seem—­that, if the springs of this emotion were genuine, all men, possessed of competent knowledge of the facts and circumstances, would be instantaneously affected.  And, doubtless, in the works of every true poet will be found passages of that species of excellence, which is proved by effects immediate and universal.  But there are emotions of the pathetic that are simple and direct, and others—­that are complex and revolutionary; some—­to which the heart yields with gentleness; others—­against which it struggles with pride; these varieties are infinite as the combinations of circumstance and the constitutions of character.  Remember, also, that the medium through which, in poetry, the heart is to be affected—­is language; a thing subject to endless fluctuations and arbitrary associations.  The genius of the poet melts these down for his purpose; but they retain their shape and quality to him who is not capable of exerting, within his own mind, a corresponding energy.  There is also a meditative, as well as a human, pathos; an enthusiastic, as well as an ordinary, sorrow; a sadness that has its seat in the depths of reason, to which the mind cannot sink gently of itself—­but to which it must descend by treading the steps of thought.  And for the sublime,—­if we consider what are the cares that occupy the passing day, and how remote is the practice and the course of life from the sources of sublimity in the soul of Man, can it be wondered that there is little existing preparation for a poet charged with a new mission to extend its kingdom, and to augment and spread its enjoyments?