The poetic or imitative art, an ancient critic has observed, must needs describe persons either better than they are, at the present time, or worse, as they are exactly. The fact is, however, that in literary fiction _individuals_ can seldom be exhibited _exactly_ such as they are, the subtle interminglings of good and evil, the finely balanced qualities that exist in the actual characters of men, even those in whom the colours are deepest and the lines most strongly traced, being _too_ fine and subtle for dramatic effect. Indeed it is scarcely possible to present a man as he truly is except in plain narrative; his mind cannot be properly manifested save in and through the very events and circumstances which gave utterance to his individual being and which his peculiar character helped to mould and produce. When taken out of these and placed in the alien framework of the novelist or dramatist it becomes another thing; the representation may convey truth of human nature in a broad way, and seem _drawn to the life_, if the writer have a lively wit, but as a portrait of a particular person it is often the more a falsehood the more natural it appears. To poetic descriptions these remarks do not apply. They are, for the most part, mere views of a character in its elevated and poetic aspects--tributes of admiration to its beautiful qualities. Such are the fine stanzas, already quoted, in which the _poet_ Coleridge is described by the great Poet, his Friend:[149] and such are some less known, composed by a poet of a later generation, who never saw my Father face to face. Of these the last four will serve for a conclusion to this sketch. I give them here for the sake of their poetic truth and the earnest sympathy they manifest with the studious poet-- Philosopher contemning wealth and death, Yet docile, childlike full of life and love,-- though they are not among the very finest parts of their author's thoughtful and beautiful poetry. No loftier, purer soul than his hath ever With awe revolved the planetary page (From infancy to age) Of knowledge: _sedulous and proud to give her The whole of his great heart for her own sake; For what she is; not what she does, or what can make._[150] And mighty voices from afar came to him; Converse of trumpets held by cloudy forms, And speech of choral storms. Spirits of night and noontide bent to woo him-- He stood the while, lonely and desolate As Adam when he ruled a world, yet found no mate. His loftiest Thoughts were but like palms uplifted; Aspiring, yet in supplicating guise-- His sweetest songs were sighs. Adown Lethean streams his spirit drifted, Under Elysian shades from poppied bank With Amaranths massed in dark luxuriance dank.