POETIC TRIFLES.

IN this chapter we wish to direct the student's footsteps into those by-paths of the garden of poesy where grow innumerable wild flowers with pretty blossoms and polished berries, which, for want of a more suitable name, are known as Social or Occasional verses.* It may be said that they stand in the same relation to the higher forms of poetry that a pyrotechnic display does to "the immortal Jove's dread clamours." Poets and scholars in all ages and countries have taken delight, in their leisure moments, in throwing off these metrical playthings, as momentary thought or passing incident suggested the occasion. Here, for instance, are some verses tossed off "in the ten minutes before dinner:

Fast falls the snow, O lady mine!
Sprinkling the lawn with crystals fine :
But, by the gods, we won't repine.
While we're together

We'll chat and rhyme, and kiss and dine,
Defying weather.

It would be next to sacrilege to class Pope's Rape of the Lock under this heading, but it is undoubtedly the most brilliant Occasional poem in the language.

So stir the fire, and pour the wine,
And let those sea-green eyes divine
Pour their love-madness into mine :
I don't care whether

'Tis snow or sun, or rain or shine,
If we're together.

Mortimer Collins.

These minor efforts may result in original experiments, or in translations, adaptations, or even parodies of favourite passages from other writers. How many scores of times have Horatian gems been adapted to passing circumstances by busy men of the world in their leisure moments, just to see if they had retained their old skill in verse. making! And the same cultured taste leads also to the turning of our own poetic beauties into other tongues.

Social verse has been aptly described as "the poetry of men who belong to society, who have a keen sympathy with the lightsome tone and airy jesting of fashion; who are not disturbed by the flippances of small talk, but, on the contrary, can see the gracefulness of which it is capable, and who, nevertheless, amid all the froth of society, feel that there are depths in our nature which even in the gaiety of drawing-rooms cannot be forgotten. It is the poetry of bitter-sweet, of sentiment that breaks into humour, and of thought, which, lest it should be too solemn, breaks into laughter. When society becomes refined, it begins to dread the exhibition of strong feeling, no matter whether real or simulated. In such an atmosphere emotion takes

refuge in jest, and passion hides itself in scepticism of passion. We are not going to wear our hearts upon our sleeves, rather than that we shall pretend to have no heart at all; and if, perchance, a bit of it should peep out, we shall hide it again as quickly as possible, and laugh at the exposure as a good joke.”* This kind of verse has rarely been produced by the professional poet of recluse habits and deep thought; men busily engaged in the affairs of the world, but with a keen zest for leisured culture, such as Suckling, Herrick, Swift, Prior, and Landor, have succeeded best. Their fancy and sense of humour have seized upon those incidents and situations of moving life most fitted for poetic treatment, while their ingenuity and wit have turned them —over their cakes and ale—into things of beauty. Perhaps it is because there is an after-dinner flavour about many of these miniature poems that coarseness occasionally disfigures their beauty, and debars their racy wit from wider appreciation. These trifles should always be refined and graceful, humorous rather than witty, the tone should not be pitched too high, nor need the treatment advance much beyond the conventional limits of social usages; their measure should run smoothly, and the rhymes ring out clearly, while a playful warmth should be perceptible throughout. Little more need be added at present, beyond reproducing a few typical specimens.

The reader is referred to the "Lyra Elegantiarum, " by Frederick Locker-Lampson.

TO LUCASTA ON GOING TO THE WARS.

Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery

Of your chaste breast and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase.

The first foe in the field,

And, with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore ;

I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
Loved I not Honour more.

Lovelace.

Out upon it, I have loved

Three whole days together,

And am like to love three more--
If it prove fine weather.

Had it any been but she,

And that very face,

There had been at least, ere this,

A dozen in her place.

Suckling.

False tho' she be to me and love,
I'll not pursue revenge;
For still the charmer I approve,
Tho' I deplore her change.

In hours of bliss we oft have met,
They could not always last;
And though the present I regret,

I'm grateful for the past.

Congreve.