Dort ragt das hohe Haupt vom edeln Enziane Weit übern niedern Chor der Pöbelkräuter hin, Ein ganzes Blumenvolk dient unter seiner Fahne, Sein blauer Bruder selbst bückt sich und ehret ihn. Der Blumen helles Gold, in Strahlen umgebogen, Thürmt sich am Stengel auf, und krönt sein grau Gewand, Der Blätter glattes Weiss mit tiefem Grün durchzogen, Strahlt von dem bunten Blitz von feuchtem Diamant. Gerechtestes Gesetz! dass Kraft sich Zier vermähle, In einem schönen Leib wohnt eine schön’re Seele. Hier kriecht ein niedrig Kraut, gleich einem grauen Nebel, Dem die Natur sein Blatt im Kreuze hingelegt, Die holde Blume zeigt die zwei vergöldten Schnäbel, Die ein von Amethyst gebildter Vogel trägt. Dort wirft ein glänzend Blatt, in Finger ausgekerbet, Auf einen hellen Bach den grünen Wiederschein; Der Blumen zarten Schnee, den matter Purpur färbet, Schliesst ein gestreifter Stern in weisse Strahlen ein. Smaragd und Rosen blühn auch auf zertretner Heide, Und Felsen decken sich mit einem Purpurkleide.[106] The learned poet is here painting plants and flowers with great art and in strict accordance with nature, but there is no illusion in his picture. I do not mean that a person who had never seen these plants and flowers could form little or no idea of them from his description. Perhaps all poetical pictures require a previous knowledge of their subject. Neither would I deny that a person possessing such knowledge might derive from the poet a more vivid idea of certain details. I only ask how it is with a conception of the whole. If that is to become more vivid, none of the separate details must stand in undue prominence, but the new illumination must be equally shared by all. Our imagination must be able to embrace them all with equal rapidity in order to form from them in an instant that one harmonious whole which the eye takes in at a glance. Is that the case here? If not, how can it be said, “that the most exact copy produced by a painter is dull and faint compared with this poetical description?”[107] It is far inferior to what lines and colors can produce on canvas. The critic who bestowed upon it this exaggerated praise must have regarded it from an entirely false point of view. He must have looked at the foreign graces which the poet has woven into his description, at his idealization of vegetable life, and his development of inward perfections, to which outward beauty serves but as the shell. These he was considering, and not beauty itself or the degree of resemblance and vividness of the image, which painter and poet respectively can give us. Upon this last point every thing depends, and whoever maintains that the lines,