OF POETRY, - ART VERSUS SPIRIT.

PROBABLY no one has ever attempted prose writing wherein he has endeavored to convey his ideas by metaphors, without feeling the force of Voltaire's complaint "En l'ecrivant meme l'idee m'echappe." And if this is true of prose writing, where words are not restricted, how much more must just be the complaint in the case of poetry, where, in the choice of words, sense and jingle seem ever to be having a Kilkenny cat-fight in the brain of the unfortunate devotee of the "Art of Poetry." And yet poets do unmistakably attain a skill in reconciling thought and metre which is perfectly marvellous. How is it done? And again, can it ever be done without sacrificing something of the thought or something of the metre? As to the latter, in the best works of our great poets, there occur such words as "under," "often," etc., in iambic metre where the accent is required on the last syllable, and "by the," "in the" &c, where only one short syllable is required. Now, if so much is sacrificed of the metre, the heavy material body of poetry, how much must be sacrificed of the ethereal soul, and those delicate fancies which the most unrestrained combination of words can barely express. But grant that all poets are able to command language to such an extent that, in transferring their thoughts into the Procrustes bed of a particular metre, no feet are stretched and no thoughts mutilated, take up at random any collection of poems, and how many are there that seem to bear a trace of the influence of the true spirit of Poesy? How many give us glimpses of that faint and fair celestial mirage which attends her coming, seldom seen by mortal eyes, never to be summoned at will, - as it were, the scenes and longings of life mirrored in the purity of heaven?

Let us have the art of poetry by all means; nay, let us even have a professor of poetry (Mr. Rhetor Beduzle suggested). Let us have society poetry, class poetry, elective poetry, youthful-soaring poetry, poetry by the cord. Let us, for literary exercise, think in poetry, and write chemical reactions in rhythm, and for economy kindle our fires with glowing thoughts. But let us not be surprised if the spirit of Poesy visits us but seldom. Practice may improve metre and the combination of words, but the spirit of Poesy, with her mysterious beauty, comes unexpectedly and vanishes quickly. In silence she bursts upon the sight unsought, filling the soul with joy unutterable, awakening melodies of which only a little echo will reach the world, To those souls she especially appears who, in the melancholy of solemn moments, feel the bitterness of all human experiences; then, reaching out towards infinity, longing for a glimpse of that which is fadeless and pure, they suddenly perceive her shedding her brilliant fairy light over man's every-day life and nature's every-day appearance. Then the minstrel of the soul strikes his lyre, the soul is filled with deep tones of harmony, and the world faintly hears

"Bells, Bells, poetic Bells,

How they ring out their delight

On the balmy air of night!

And the stars that oversprinkle

All the heavens seem to twinkle

With a crystalline delight."

C. W. S.