There was, if we mistake not, something of
modesty, and a painful sense of personal propriety at the bottom of
this. Shakespeare's imagination, by identifying itself with the
strongest characters in the most trying circumstances, grappled at
once with nature, and trampled the littleness of art under his feet:
the rapid changes of situation, the wide range of the universe, gave
him life and spirit, and afforded full scope to his genius; but
returned into his closet again, and having assumed the badge of his
profession, he could only labour in his vocation, and conform
himself to existing models. The thoughts, the passions, the words
which the poet's pen, 'glancing from heaven to earth, from earth to
heaven', lent to others, shook off the fetters of pedantry and
affectation; while his own thoughts and feelings, standing by
themselves, were seized upon as lawful prey, and tortured to death
according to the established rules and practice of the day. In a
word, we do not like Shakespeare's poems, because we like his plays:
the one, in all their excellences, are just the reverse of the
other. It has been the fashion of late to cry up our author's poems,
as equal to his plays: this is the desperate cant of modern
criticism. We would ask, was there the slightest comparison between
Shakespeare, and either Chaucer or Spenser, as mere poets? Not any.
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