The first Volume of these Poems has already been submitted to general perusal. It was published, as
an experiment, which, I hoped, might be of some use to ascertain, how far, by fitting to metrical
arrangement a selection of the real language of men in a state of vivid sensation, that sort of pleasure
and that quantity of pleasure may be imparted, which a Poet may rationally endeavour to impart.

. . .

Several of my Friends are anxious for the success of these Poems from a belief, that, if the views
with which they were composed were indeed realized, a class of Poetry would be produced, well
adapted to interest mankind permanently, and not unimportant in the multiplicity, and in the quality of
its moral relations: and on this account they have advised me to prefix a systematic defence of the
theory, upon which the poems were written. But I was unwilling to undertake the task, because I
knew that on this occasion the Reader would look coldly upon my arguments, since I might be
suspected of having been principally influenced by the selfish and foolish hope of *reasoning* him
into an approbation of these particular Poems: and I was still more unwilling to undertake the task,
because, adequately to display my opinions, and fully to enforce my arguments, would require a
space wholly disproportionate to the nature of a preface. For to treat the subject with the clearness
and coherence, of which I believe it susceptible, it would be necessary to give a full account of the
present state of the public taste in this country, and to determine how far this taste is healthy or
depraved; which, again, could not be determined, without pointing out, in what manner language and
the human mind act and re-act on each other and without retracing the revolutions, not of literature
alone, but likewise of society itself. I have therefore altogether declined to enter regularly upon this
defence; yet I am sensible, that there would be some impropriety in abruptly obtruding upon the
Public, without a few words of introduction, Poems so materially different from those, upon which
general approbation is at present bestowed.

It is supposed, that by the act of writing in verse an Author makes a formal engagement that he will
gratify certain known habits of association; that he not only thus apprizes the Reader that certain
classes of ideas and expressions will be found in his book, but that others will be carefully excluded.
This exponent or symbol held forth by metrical language must in different eras of literature have
excited very different expectations: for example, in the age of Catullus, Terence, and Lucretius and
that of Statius or Claudian; and in our own country, in the age of Shakespeare and Beaumont and
Fletcher, and that of Donne and Cowley, or Dryden, or Pope. I will not take upon me to determine
the exact import of the promise which by the act of writing in verse an Author, in the present day,
makes to his Reader; but I am certain, it will appear to many persons that I have not fulfilled the
terms of an engagement thus voluntarily contracted. They who have been accustomed to the
gaudiness and inane phraseology of many modern writers, if they persist in reading this book to its
conclusion, will, no doubt, frequently have to struggle with feelings of strangeness and aukwardness:
they will look round for poetry, and will be induced to inquire by what species of courtesy these
attempts can be permitted to assume that title. I hope therefore the Reader will not censure me, if I
attempt to state what I have proposed to myself to perform; and also, (as far as the limits of a
preface will permit) to explain some of the chief reasons which have determined me in the choice of
my purpose: that at least he may be spared any unpleasant feeling of disappointment, and that I
myself may be protected from the most dishonorable accusation which can be brought against an
Author, namely, that of an indolence which prevents him from endeavouring to ascertain what is his
duty, or, when his duty is ascertained, prevents him from performing it.

The principal object, then, which I proposed to myself in these Poems was to chuse incidents and
situations from common life, and to relate or describe them, throughout, as far as was possible, in a
selection of language really used by men; and, at the same time, to throw over them a certain
colouring of imagination, whereby ordinary things should be presented to the mind in an unusual
way; and, further, and above all, to make these incidents and situations interesting by tracing in them,
truly though not ostentatiously, the primary laws of our nature: chiefly, as far as regards the manner in
which we associate ideas in a state of excitement. Low and rustic life was generally chosen, because
in that condition, the essential passions of the heart find a better soil in which they can attain their
maturity, are less under restraint, and speak a plainer and more emphatic language; because in that
condition of life our elementary feelings co-exist in a state of greater simplicity, and, consequently,
may be more accurately contemplated, and more forcibly communicated; because the manners of
rural life germinate from those elementary feelings; and, from the necessary character of rural
occupations, are more easily comprehended, and are more durable; and lastly, because in that
condition the passions of men are incorporated with the beautiful and permanent forms of nature.
The language, too, of these men is adopted (purified indeed from what appear to be its real defects,
from all lasting and rational causes of dislike or disgust) because such men hourly communicate with
the best objects from which the best part of language is originally derived; and because, from their
rank in society and the sameness and narrow circle of their intercourse, being less under the
influence of social vanity they convey their feelings and notions in simple and unelaborated
expressions. Accordingly, such a language, arising out of repeated experience and regular feelings, is
a more permanent, and a far more philosophical language, than that which is frequently substituted
for it by Poets, who think that they are conferring honour upon themselves and their art, in
proportion as they separate themselves from the sympathies of men, and indulge in arbitrary and
capricious habits of expression, in order to furnish food for fickle tastes, and fickle appetites, of their
own creation.[note 1]

I cannot, however, be insensible of the present outcry against the triviality and meanness both of
thought and language, which some of my contemporaries have occasionally introduced into their
metrical compositions; and I acknowledge, that this defect, where it exists, is more dishonorable to
the Writer's own character than false refinement or arbitrary innovation, though I should contend at
the same time that it is far less pernicious in the sum of its consequences. From such verses the
Poems in these volumes will be found distinguished at least by one mark of difference, that each of
them bas a worthy purpose. Not that I mean to say, that I always began to write with a distinct
purpose formally conceived; but I believe that my habits of meditation have so formed my feelings,
as that my descriptions of such objects as strongly excite those feelings, will be found to carry along
with them a purpose. If in this opinion I am mistaken, I can have little right to the name of a Poet.
For all good poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: but though this be true, Poems
to which any value can be attached, were never produced on any variety of subjects but by a man,
who being possessed of more than usual organic sensibility, had also thought long and deeply. For
our continued influxes of feeling are modified and directed by our thoughts, which are indeed the
representatives of all our past feelings; and, as by contemplating the relation of these general
representatives to each other we discover what is really important to men, so, by the repetition and
continuance of this act, our feelings will be connected with important subjects, till at length, if we be
originally possessed of much sensibility, such habits of mind will be produced, that, by obeying
blindly and mechanically the impulses of those habits, we shall describe objects, and utter
sentiments, of such a nature and in such connection with each other, that the understanding of the
being to whom we address ourselves, if he be in a healthful state of association, must necessarily be
in some degree enlightened, and his affections ameliorated.

. . .

I will not suffer a sense of false modesty to prevent me from asserting, that I point my Reader's
attention to this mark of distinction, far less for the sake of these particular Poems than from the
general importance of the subject. The subject is indeed important! For the human mind is capable
of being excited without the application of gross and violent stimulants; and he must have a very faint
perception of its beauty and dignity who does not know this, and who does not further know, that
one being is elevated above another, in proportion as he possesses this capability. It has therefore
appeared to me, that to endeavour to produce or enlarge this capability is one of the best services in
which, at any period, a Writer can be engaged; but this service, excellent at all times, is especially so
at the present day. For a multitude of causes, unknown to former times, are now acting with a
combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary
exertion to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor. The most effective of these causes are the
great national events which are daily taking place, and the encreasing accumulation of men in cities,
where the uniformity of their occupations produces a craving for extraordinary incident, which the
rapid communication of intelligence hourly gratifies. To this tendency of life and manners the
literature and theatrical exhibitions of the country have conformed themselves. The invaluable works
of our elder writers, I had almost said the works of Shakespeare and Milton, are driven into neglect
by frantic novels, sickly and stupid German Tragedies, and deluges of idle and extravagant stories in
verse. When I think upon this degrading thirst after outrageous stimulation, I am almost ashamed to
have spoken of the feeble effort with which I have endeavoured to counteract it; and, reflecting upon
the magnitude of the general evil, I should be oppressed with no dishonorable melancholy, had I not
a deep impression of certain inherent and indestructible qualities of the human mind, and likewise of
certain powers in the great and permanent objects that act upon it which are equally inherent and
indestructible; and did I not further add to this impression a belief, that the time is approaching when
the evil will be systematically opposed, by men of greater powers, and with far more distinguished
success.

. . .

But, as the pleasure which I hope to give by the Poems I now present to the Reader must depend
entirely on just notions upon this subject, and, as it is in itself of the highest importance to our taste
and moral feelings, I cannot content myself with these detached remarks. And if, in what I am about
to say, it shall appear to some that my labour is unnecessary, and that I am like a man fighting a
battle without enemies, I would remind such persons, that, whatever may be the language outwardly
holden by men, a practical faith in the opinions which I am wishing to establish is almost unknown. If
my conclusions are admitted, and carried as far as they must be carried if admitted at all, our
judgments concerning the works of the greatest Poets both ancient and modern will be far different
from what they are at present, both when we praise, and when we censure: and our moral feelings
influencing, and influenced by these judgments will, I believe, be corrected and purified.

Taking up the subject, then, upon general grounds, I ask what is meant by the word Poet? What is a
Poet? To whom does he address himself? And what language is to be expected from him? He is a
man speaking to men: a man, it is true, endued with more lively sensibility, more enthusiasm and
tenderness, who has a greater knowledge of human nature, and a more comprehensive soul, than
are supposed to be common among mankind; a man pleased with his own passions and volitions,
and who rejoices more than other men in the spirit of life that is in him; delighting to contemplate
similar volitions and passions as manifested in the goings-on of the Universe, and habitually impelled
to create them where he does not find them. To these qualities he has added a disposition to be
affected more than other men by absent things as if they were present; an ability of conjuring up in
himself passions, which are indeed far from being the same as those produced by real events, yet
(especially in those parts of the general sympathy which are pleasing and delightful) do more nearly
resemble the passions produced by real events, than any thing which, from the motions of their own
minds merely, other men are accustomed to feel in themselves; whence, and from practice, he has
acquired a greater readiness and power in expressing what he thinks and feels, and especially those
thoughts and feelings which, by his own choice, or from the structure of his own mind, arise in him
without immediate external excitement.

But, whatever portion of this faculty we may suppose even the greatest Poet to possess, there
cannot be a doubt but that the language which it will suggest to him, must, in liveliness and truth, fall
far short of that which is uttered by men in real life, under the actual pressure of those passions,
certain shadows of which the Poet thus produces, or feels to be produced, in himself. However
exalted a notion we would wish to cherish of the character of a Poet, it is obvious, that, while he
describes and imitates passions, his situation is altogether slavish and mechanical, compared with the
freedom and power of real and substantial action and suffering. So that it will be the wish of the Poet
to bring his feelings near to those of the persons whose feelings he describes, nay, for short spaces
of time perhaps, to let himself slip into an entire delusion, and even confound and identify his own
feelings with theirs; modifying only the language which is thus suggested to him, by a consideration
that he describes for a particular purpose, that of giving pleasure. Here, then, he will apply the
principle on which I have so much insisted, namely, that of selection; on this he will depend for
removing what would otherwise be painful or disgusting in the passion; he will feel that there is no
necessity to trick out or to elevate nature: and, the more industriously he applies this principle, the
deeper will be his faith that no words, which his fancy or imagination can suggest, will be to be
compared with those which are the emanations of reality and truth.

But it may be said by those who do not object to the general spirit of these remarks, that, as it is
impossible for the Poet to produce upon all occasions language as exquisitely fitted for the passion
as that which the real passion itself suggests, it is proper that he should consider himself as in the
situation of a translator, who deems himself justified when he substitutes excellences of another kind
for those which are unattainable by him; and endeavours occasionally to surpass his original, in order
to make some amends for the general inferiority to which he feels that he must submit. But this would
be to encourage idleness and unmanly despair. Further, it is the language of men who speak of what
they do not understand; who talk of Poetry as of a matter of amusement and idle pleasure; who will
converse with us as gravely about a taste for Poetry, as they express it, as if it were a thing as
indifferent as a taste for Rope-dancing, or Frontiniac or Sherry. Aristotle, I have been told, hath
said, that Poetry is the most philosophic of all writing: it is so: its object is truth, not individual and
local, but general, and operative; not standing upon external testimony, but carried alive into the
heart by passion; truth which is its own testimony, which gives strength and divinity to the tribunal to
which it appeals, and receives them from the same tribunal. Poetry is the image of man and nature.
The obstacles which stand in the way of the fidelity of the Biographer and Historian, and of their
consequent utility, are incalculably greater than those which are to be encountered by the Poet, who
has an adequate notion of the dignity of his art. The Poet writes under one restriction only, namely,
that of the necessity of giving immediate pleasure to a human Being possessed of that information
which may be expected from him, not as a lawyer, a physician, a mariner, an astronomer or a natural
philosopher, but as a Man. Except this one restriction, there is no object standing between the Poet
and the image of things; between this, and the Biographer and Historian there are a thousand.

Nor let this necessity of producing immediate pleasure be considered as a degradation of the Poet's
art. It is far otherwise. It is an acknowledgment of the beauty of the universe, an acknowledgment
the more sincere because it is not formal, but indirect; it is a task light and easy to him who looks at
the world in the spirit of love: further, it is a homage paid to the native and naked dignity of man, to
the grand elementary principle of pleasure, by which he knows, and feels, and lives, and moves. We
have no sympathy but what is propagated by pleasure: I would not be misunderstood; but wherever
we sympathize with pain it will be found that the sympathy is produced and carried on by subtle
combinations with pleasure. We have no knowledge, that is, no general principles drawn from the
contemplation of particular facts, but what has been built up by pleasure, and exists in us by pleasure
alone. The Man of Science, the Chemist and Mathematician, whatever difficulties and disgusts they
may have had to struggle with, know and feel this. However painful may be the objects with which
the Anatomist's knowledge is connected, he feels that his knowledge is pleasure; and where he has
no pleasure he has no knowledge. What then does the Poet? He considers man and the objects that
surround him as acting and re-acting upon each other, so as to produce an infinite complexity of pain
and pleasure; he considers man in his own nature and in his ordinary life as contemplating this with a
certain quantity of immediate knowledge, with certain convictions, intuitions, and deductions which
by habit become of the nature of intuitions; he considers him as looking upon this complex scene of
ideas and sensations, and finding every where objects that immediately excite in him sympathies
which, from the necessities of his nature, are accompanied by an overbalance of enjoyment.

To this knowledge which all men carry about with them, and to these sympathies in which without
any other discipline than that of our daily life we are fitted to take delight, the Poet principally directs
his attention. He considers man and nature as essentially adapted to each other, and the mind of man
as naturally the mirror of the fairest and most interesting qualities of nature. And thus the Poet,
prompted by this feeling of pleasure which accompanies him through the whole course of his studies,
converses with general nature with affections akin to those, which, through labour and length of time,
the Man of Science has raised up in himself, by conversing with those particular parts of nature
which are the objects of his studies. The knowledge both of the Poet and the Man of Science is
pleasure; but the knowledge of the one cleaves to us as a necessary part of our existence, our
natural and unalienable inheritance; the other is a personal and individual acquisition, slow to come to
us, and by no habitual and direct sympathy connecting us with our fellow- beings. The Man of
Science seeks truth as a remote and unknown benefactor; he cherishes and loves it in his solitude:
the Poet, singing a song in which all human beings join with him, rejoices in the presence of truth as
our visible friend and hourly companion. Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is
the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science. Emphatically may it be said of
the Poet, as Shakespeare hath said of man, "that he looks before and after." He is the rock of
defence of human nature; an upholder and preserver, carrying every where with him relationship and
love. In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs, in
spite of things silently gone out of mind and things violently destroyed, the Poet binds together by
passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and
over all time. The objects of the Poet's thoughts are every where; though the eyes and senses of man
are, it is true, his favorite guides, yet he will follow wheresoever he can find an atmosphere of
sensation in which to move his wings. Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge--it is as immortal
as the heart of man. If the labours of men of Science should ever create any material revolution,
direct or indirect, in our condition, and in the impressions which we habitually receive, the Poet will
sleep then no more than at present, but he will be ready to follow the steps of the man of Science,
not only in those general indirect effects, but he will be at his side, carrying sensation into the midst of
the objects of the Science itself. The remotest discoveries of the Chemist, the Botanist, or
Mineralogist, will be as proper objects of the Poet's art as any upon which it can be employed, if the
time should ever come when these things shall be familiar to us, and the relations under which they
are contemplated by the followers of these respective Sciences shall be manifestly and palpably
material to us as enjoying and suffering beings. If the time should ever come when what is now called
Science, thus familiarized to men, shall be ready to put on, as it were, a form of flesh and blood, the
Poet will lend his divine spirit to aid the transfiguration, and will welcome the Being thus produced,
as a dear and genuine inmate of the household of man. It is not, then, to be supposed that any one,
who holds that sublime notion of Poetry which I have attempted to convey, will break in upon the
sanctity and truth of his pictures by transitory and accidental ornaments, and endeavour to excite
admiration of himself by arts, the necessity of which must manifestly depend upon the assumed
meanness of his subject.

. . .

Among the qualities which I have enumerated as principally conducting to form a Poet, is implied
nothing differing in kind from other men, but only in degree. The sum of what I have there said is,
that the Poet is chiefly distinguished from other men by a greater promptness to think and feel
without immediate external excitement, and a greater power in expressing such thoughts and feelings
as are produced in him in that manner. But these passions and thoughts and feelings are the general
passions and thoughts and feelings of men. And with what are they connected? Undoubtedly with
our moral sentiments and animal sensations, and with the causes which excite these; with the
operations of the elements and the appearances of the visible universe; with storm and sun-shine,
with the revolutions of the seasons, with cold and heat, with loss of friends and kindred, with injuries
and resentments, gratitude and hope, with fear and sorrow. These, and the like, are the sensations
and objects which the Poet describes, as they are the sensations of other men, and the objects
which interest them. The Poet thinks and feels in the spirit of the passions of men. How, then, can his
language differ in any material degree from that of all other men who feel vividly and see clearly? It
might be proved that it is impossible. But supposing that this were not the case, the Poet might then
be allowed to use a peculiar language, when expressing his feelings for his own gratification, or that
of men like himself. But Poets do not write for Poets alone, but for men. Unless therefore we are
advocates for that admiration which depends upon ignorance, and that pleasure which arises from
hearing what we do not understand, the Poet must descend from this supposed height, and, in order
to excite rational sympathy, he must express himself as other men express themselves. To this it may
be added, that while he is only selecting from the real language of men, or, which amounts to the
same thing, composing accurately in the spirit of such selection, he is treading upon safe ground, and
we know what we are to expect from him. Our feelings are the same with respect to metre; for, as it
may be proper to remind the Reader, the distinction of metre is regular and uniform, and not like that
which is produced by what is usually called poetic diction, arbitrary, and subject to infinite caprices
upon which no calculation whatever can be made. In the one case, the Reader is utterly at the mercy
of the Poet respecting what imagery or diction he may choose to connect with the passion, whereas,
in the other, the metre obeys certain laws, to which the Poet and Reader both willingly submit
because they are certain, and because no interference is made by them with the passion but such as
the concurring testimony of ages has shewn to heighten and improve the pleasure which coexists
with it.

. . .

If I had undertaken a systematic defence of the theory upon which these poems are written, it would
have been my duty to develope the various causes upon which the pleasure received from metrical
language depends. Among the chief of these causes is to be reckoned a principle which must be well
known to those who have made any of the Arts the object of accurate reflection; I mean the
pleasure which the mind derives from the perception of similitude in dissimilitude. This principle is the
great spring of the activity of our minds, and their chief feeder. From this principle the direction of
the sexual appetite, and all the passions connected with it take their origin: It is the life of our
ordinary conversation; and upon the accuracy with which similitude in dissimilitude, and dissimilitude
in similitude are perceived, depend our taste and our moral feelings. It would not have been a
useless employment to have applied this principle to the consideration of metre, and to have shewn
that metre is hence enabled to afford much pleasure, and to have pointed out in what manner that
pleasure is produced. But my limits will not permit me to enter upon this subject, and I must content
myself with a general summary.

. . .

I have one request to make of my Reader, which is, that in judging these Poems he would decide by
his own feelings genuinely, and not by reflection upon what will probably be the judgment of others.
How common is it to hear a person say, "I myself do not object to this style of composition or this
or that expression, but to such and such classes of people it will appear mean or ludicrous." This
mode of criticism, so destructive of all sound unadulterated judgment, is almost universal: I have
therefore to request, that the Reader would abide independently by his own feelings, and that if he
finds himself affected he would not suffer such conjectures to interfere with his pleasure.

If an Author by any single composition has impressed us with respect for his talents, it is useful to
consider this as affording a presumption, that, on other occasions where we have been displeased,
he nevertheless may not have written ill or absurdly; and, further, to give him so much credit for this
one composition as may induce us to review what has displeased us with more care than we should
otherwise have bestowed upon it. This is not only an act of justice, but in our decisions upon poetry
especially, may conduce in a high degree to the improvement of our own taste: for an accurate taste
in poetry, and in all the other arts, as Sir Joshua Reynolds has observed, is an acquired talent, which
can only be produced by thought and a long continued intercourse with the best models of
composition. This is mentioned, not with so ridiculous a purpose as to prevent the most
inexperienced Reader from judging for himself, (I have already said that I wish him to judge for
himself;) but merely to temper the rashness of decision, and to suggest, that, if Poetry be a subject
on which much time has not been bestowed, the judgment may be erroneous; and that in many cases
it necessarily will be so.

I know that nothing would have so effectually contributed to further the end which I have in view as
to have shewn of what kind the pleasure is, and how that pleasure is produced, which is confessedly
produced by metrical composition essentially different from that which I have here endeavoured to
recommend: for the Reader will say that he has been pleased by such composition; and what can I
do more for him? The power of any art is limited; and he will suspect, that, if I propose to furnish
him with new friends, it is only upon condition of his abandoning his old friends. Besides, as I have
said, the Reader is himself conscious of the pleasure which he has received from such composition,
composition to which he has peculiarly attached the endearing name of Poetry; and all men feel an
habitual gratitude, and something of an honorable bigotry for the objects which have long continued
to please them: we not only wish to be pleased, but to be pleased in that particular way in which we
have been accustomed to be pleased. There is a host of arguments in these feelings; and I should be
the less able to combat them successfully, as I am willing to allow, that, in order entirely to enjoy the
Poetry which I am recommending, it would be necessary to give up much of what is ordinarily
enjoyed. But, would my limits have permitted me to point out how this pleasure is produced, I might
have removed many obstacles, and assisted my Reader in perceiving that the powers of language
are not so limited as he may suppose; and that it is possible that poetry may give other enjoyments,
of a purer, more lasting, and more exquisite nature. This part of my subject I have not altogether
neglected; but it bas been less my present aim to prove, that the interest excited by some other kinds
of poetry is less vivid, and less worthy of the nobler powers of the mind, than to offer reasons for
presuming, that, if the object which I have proposed to myself were adequately attained, a species
of poetry would be produced, which is genuine poetry; in its nature well adapted to interest mankind
permanently, and likewise important in the multiplicity and quality of its moral relations.

From what has been said, and from a perusal of the Poems, the Reader will be able clearly to
perceive the object which I have proposed to myself: he will determine how far I have attained this
object; and, what is a much more important question, whether it be worth attaining; and upon the
decision of these two questions will rest my claim to the approbation of the public.