but rather to have dropped of itself into the mind of the poet in one of his rambles, who then, in a less rapt mood, has patiently built up around it a setting of verse too often ungraceful in form and of a material whose cheapness may cast a doubt on the priceless quality of the gem it encumbers.1
During the most happily productive period of his life, Wordsworth
was impatient of what may be called the mechanical portion of his art. His wife and sister seem from the first to have been his scribes.
In later years, he had learned and often insisted on the truth that poetry was an art no less than a gift, and corrected his poems in cold blood, sometimes to their detriment.
But he certainly had more of the vision than of the faculty divine, and was always a little numb on the side of form and proportion.
Perhaps his best poem in these respects is the ‘Laodamia,’ and it is not uninstructive to learn from his own lips that ‘it cost him more trouble than almost anything of equal length he had ever written.’
His longer poems (miscalled epical) have no more intimate bond of union than their more or less immediate relation to his own personality.
Of character other than his own he had but a faint conception, and all the personages of ‘The Excursion’ that are not Wordsworth
are the merest shadows of himself upon mist, for his self-concentrated nature was incapable of projecting itself into the consciousness of other men and seeing the springs of action at their source in the recesses of individual character.
The best parts of these longer poems are bursts of impassioned soliloquy, and his