(m). IRREGULAR STANZAS.

Most of the finest odes in our language are exceedingly complex in structure, both in variety of metre and length of verse, and they are usually broken up into stanzas of varying length, from four to upwards of twenty lines. Amongst the most noted compositions of this kind may be enumerated Milton's Ode on the Nativity of Christ, Dryden's Alexander's Feast, Pope's Ode on St. Cecilia's Day, Gray's Bard and On a Distant Prospect of Eton College, Shelley's West Wind and The Cloud. Collins's Ode on the Passions is here quoted at length as a typical specimen.

THE PASSIONS.

When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her skill,
Thronged around her magic cell.

Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired,

From the supporting myrtles round

They snatch'd her instruments of sound;
And as they oft had heard apart

Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each, for madness ruled the hour,

Would prove his own expressive power.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords, bewilder'd laid;
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made.
Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings own'd his secret stings;
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woeful measure wan Despair-

Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled;
A solemn, strange, and mingled air;
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.
But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whispered promised pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail.
Still would her touch the strain prolong;
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,

She call'd on Echo still through all the song ;

And where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close;

And Hope enchanted, smiled and waved her golden hair : And longer had she sung—but with a frown

Revenge impatient rose ;

He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down

And with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took,

And blew a blast so loud and dread,

Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe;

And ever and anon he beat

The double drum with furious heat;

And though sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity at his side

Her soul-subduing voice applied,

Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien,

While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his

head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd;

Sad proof of thy distressful state;

Of diff'ring themes the veering song was mix'd,

And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate.

With eyes upraised, as one inspired,

Pale Melancholy sat retired,

And from her wild sequester'd seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,

Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul;

And dashing soft from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels join'd the sound;

Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole:
Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay,
Round a holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace and lonely musing,
In hollow murmurs died away.

But oh! how alter'd was its sprightly tone

When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskin gemmed with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air that dale and thicket rung,

The hunter's call, to fawn and dryad known

The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen,
Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen

Peeping from forth their alleys green;

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear,

And Sport leap'd up, and seized his beechen spear.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:

He with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand address'd;

But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,

Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best.

They would have thought who heard the strain,
They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids.
Amid the festal sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing:

While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round, Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound: And he, amidst his frolic play,

As it he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

O Music! sphere-descended maid,
Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid!
Why, goddess! why, to us denied,
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?
As in that loved Athenian bower,
You learn an all-commanding power;
Thy mimic soul, O nymph endeared,
Can well recall what then it heard,
Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to virtue, fancy, art?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energic, chaste, sublime!
Thy wonders in that godlike age
Fill thy recording sister's page--
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all that charms this laggard age;
Even all at once together found,
Cecilia's mingled world of sound.
Oh, bid our vain endeavours cease,
Revive the just designs of Greece ;
Return in all thy simple state;
Confirm the tales her sons relate.

POETIC LICENCES.

In this chapter we are called upon to deal with all the departures from normal exactitude of which writers of verse avail themselves. We shall find that it is not so much an enquiry into the nature and extent of the liberty the poet is allowed, as of the kind and amount he thinks fit to take. Versemaking preceded prosodial laws, as speech and writing existed before the rules of grammar were drawn up. The poet presents us with the verses he has framed to his own sweet will, and all that is left to prosaic mortals is to approve or condemn them. The restrictions and difficulties that the artist, whose material is words, has to contend with are at once so embarrassing and unavoidable, that what are called licences would be more truly designated necessities. The versifier is expected to conform to strict grammatical rule; he has to manipulate sounds and their symbols which bristle with irregularities and difficulties of many kinds, and yet he must produce melody which is pleasing and varied. To accomplish all this he is compelled to become, in a sense, a law unto himself, and therefore he makes no scruple in surmounting obstacles to trespass the boundaries laid down for ordinary observance.