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RULES FOR READING POETRY.

Eye nature's walks, shoot folly as it flies,
And catch the manners living as they rise.
Their praise is still the stile is excellent;
The sense they humbly take upon content.
False eloquence like the prismatic glass,
Its gaudy colours spreads on every place.

Rule IV. The vowel e, which is frequently cut off and supplied by an apostrophe, as th', every gen’rous, dang'rous, ought to be both written and pronounced. Such words as giv'n and heav'n, should have the e in the last syllable written but not pronounced. To should not be written t' but to and also pronounced. Why the present poets write looked, loved, asked, instead of look'd, lov'd, ask'd, when the verse neither admits of them, nor are they ever so pronounced in prose when it is properly read, is a query I leave to themselves to solve.

Rule V. In familiar, strong, argumentative subjects, the falling inflexion should prevail, being more adapted to express activity, force, and precision: whereas light, beautiful, and particularly plaintive subjects, naturally take the rising inflexion as more expressive of such sentiments and feelings.

Rule VI. Sublime, grand, and magnificent description in poetry, frequently require a lower tone of voice, and sameness of inflexion approaching to a monotone.

Rule VII. A simile in poetry must be read in a lower tone than that which precedes it.

Rule VIII. Where there is no pause in the sense at the end of a verse, the last word must have the same inflexion it would have in prose.

Over our heads a chrystal firmament
Whereon a sapphire throne, inlaid with pure
Amber, and colours of the flowery arch.

Chapter I.

NARRATIVE PIECES.

Section I.

THE FOLLOWING EXAMPLES CONTAIN VERSES, THE SOUND QF WHICH IS AN ECHO TO THE SENSE.

Soft and Rough.

Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows,
And the smooth stream in smoother number flows:
But when loud surges lash the sounding shore,
The hoarse rough verse should like the torrent roar.

Slow Motion.

When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, The line too labours, and the words move slow.

Swift and Easy.

Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain, Flies o'er the unbending corn and skims along the main.

Felling Trees.

Loud sounds the axe redoubling strokes on strokes : On all sides round the forest hurls her oaks Headlong. Deep echoing groan the thickets brown; Then rustling, crashing, cracking, thunder down.

Sound of a Bow String.

..........The string let fly,

Twanged short and sharp, like the shrill swallows cry.

Scylla and Charybdis.

Dire Scylla there a scene of horror forms,
And here Charybdis fills the deep with storms
When the tide rushes from her rumbling caves,
The rough rock roars ; tumultuous boil the waves.

Boisterous and Gentle Sounds.

Two craggy rocks projecting to the main,
The roaring winds tempestuous rage restrain:
Within, the waves in softer murmurs glide,
And ships secure without their hawsers ride.

Laborious and Impetuous Motion.

With many a weary step and many a groan,
Up the high hill, he heaves a huge round stone ;
The huge round stone resulting, with a bound,
Thunders impetuous down and smokes along the
ground.

Regular and Slow Movement.

First march the heavy mules securely slow;
O'er hills, o'er dales, o'er crags, o'er rocks they go.

Slow and Difficult Motion.

A needless Alexandrine ends the song;

[along. That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length

A Rock torn from the Brow of a Mountain.

Still gaining force, it smokes, and urg'd amain, [plain. Whirls, leaps, and thunders down, impetuous to the

Extent and Violence of the Waves.

The waves behind impel the waves before,
Wide rolling, foaming high, and tumbling to the shore.

Pensive Numbers.

In those deep solitudes and awful cells,
Where heavenly-pensive Contemplation dwells,
And ever-musing melancholy reigns.

The Rage of Battle.

Arms on armour clashing bray'd

Horrible discord; and the madding wheels
Of brazen fury rag'd.

Sound Imitating Reluctance.

For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd:
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind.

Section II.

OTHELLO'S APOLOGY.

That I have taken away this old man's daughter,
It is most true; true, I have married her;
The very head and front of my offending

Hath this extent; no more. Rude am I in speech,
And little bless'd with the set phrase of

peace, For since these arms of mine had seven years pith, Till now some nine moons wasted, they have us'd Their dearest action in the tented field; And little of this great world can I speak, More than pertains to feats of broils and battle; And therefore little shall I grace my cause, In speaking for myself. Yet, by your patience, I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver,

Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms, What conjuration, and what mighty magic

(For such proceedings I am charg'd withal)
I won his daughter with.-

Her father lov'd me, oft invited me,
Still question'd me the story of my life,
From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunes,
That I have past.

I ran it through, ev'n from my boyish days,
To the very moment that he bade me tell it.
Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents by flood and field;

Of hair-breadth 'scapes in the imminent deadly breach,
Of being taken by the insolent foe,

And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,
And with it, all my travel's history:

Wherein of antres vast, and desarts wild,

Rough quarries, rocks, and hills, whose heads touch heaven,

It was my bent to speak.-All these to hear
Would Desdemona seriously incline.

But still the house affairs would draw her hence,
Which ever as she could with haste dispatch,
She'd come again, and with a greedy ear
Devour up my discourse: which I cbserving,
Took once a pliant hour, and found good means
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate;
Whereof by parcels she had something heard,
But not distinctively. I did consent,
And often did beguile her of her tears,
When I did speak of some distressful stroke
That my youth suffered. My story being done,
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs.

She swore, in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange;

"Twas pitiful, 'twas wond'rous pitiful

She wish'd she had not heard it

yet she wish'd That Heaven had made her such a man:-she thank'

me,

And bade me, if I had a friend that lov'd her,
I should but teach him how to tell my story,