The best that can be offered by the best writer of prose is
to show us the development of the idea and the stylistic
pattern proceed hand in hand, sometimes by an obvious and
triumphant effort, sometimes with a great air of ease and
nature. The writer of verse, by virtue of conquering another
difficulty, delights us with a new series of triumphs. He
follows three purposes where his rival followed only two; and
the change is of precisely the same nature as that from
melody to harmony. Or if you prefer to return to the
juggler, behold him now, to the vastly increased enthusiasm
of the spectators, juggling with three oranges instead of
two. Thus it is: added difficulty, added beauty; and the
pattern, with every fresh element, becoming more interesting
in itself.
Yet it must not be thought that verse is simply an addition;
something is lost as well as something gained; and there
remains plainly traceable, in comparing the best prose with
the best verse, a certain broad distinction of method in the
web. Tight as the versifier may draw the knot of logic, yet
for the ear he still leaves the tissue of the sentence
floating somewhat loose. In prose, the sentence turns upon a
pivot, nicely balanced, and fits into itself with an
obtrusive neatness like a puzzle. The ear remarks and is
singly gratified by this return and balance; while in verse
it is all diverted to the measure. To find comparable
passages is hard; for either the versifier is hugely the
superior of the rival, or, if he be not, and still persist in
his more delicate enterprise, he fails to be as widely his
inferior.
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