It is not my object now, however, to justify what Mr. Arnold calls the
Byronic "superstition." I hope I could justify a good part of it, but
this is not the opportunity. I cannot resist, however, saying a word by
way of conclusion on the manner in which Byron has fulfilled what seems
to me one of the chief offices of the poet. Mr. Arnold, although he is
so dissatisfied with Byron because he "cannot reflect," would probably
in another mood admit that "reflections" are not what we demand of a
poet. We do not ask of him a rhymed book of proverbs. He should rather
be the articulation of what in Nature is great but inarticulate. In him
the thunder, the sea, the peace of morning, the joy of youth, the rush
of passion, the calm of old age, should find words, and men should
through him become aware of the unrecognised wealth of existence. Byron
had the power above most poets of acting as a kind of tongue to Nature.
His descriptions are on everybody's lips, and it is superfluous to quote
them. He represented things not as if they were aloof from him, but as
if they were the concrete embodiment of his soul.
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