DE ARTE POETICA.

GREAT is the art of verse-making, and much to be desired! It is the art of arts, - the constant vehicle for the burning thoughts of mankind. It is the art which every Harvard man would do well to cultivate, if he wish to distinguish himself and perhaps become even an editor of a College paper. But to make good verses - that is, good Harvard verses - requires considerable skill and tact; not genius, nothing so vulgar and trivial as genius.

It is probable that but few persons are acquainted with the mechanical process by which verses are made. Yet the process is simple enough, and may be confidently attempted by any one possessing a fair amount of intelligence and a pocket dictionary, with the firm expectation of rivalling the flower (I might almost say the daisy) of Harvard poetry.

In the first place, particular attention must be paid to the heart: if you have no heart, you cannot possibly become a poet. You must have a poet's heart, too, - different from all other hearts. This is the most difficult part of the subject, and is apt to discourage beginners. Again, it is important to "have loved and lost." This is a comparatively easy matter. Another important point is the use of figurative language. To their reluctance to use more than one or two figures of speech in the same line may be attributed the bare, prosaic nature of the English poets, - notably Shakspeare and Tennyson. The celebrated phrase "To take arms against a sea of troubles," which some have ignorantly criticised, is still far below the Harvard standard. A Harvard poet would have written, "To gather arms," or "To reap arms." The following lines deserve to take rank among the finest in the language :-

The budding music swims through the still air In a soft blaze of sound.

It may not be generally known that a set of tables has been prepared, which is of great assistance. These tables are simply lists of rhymed words, ingeniously arranged. The College papers will send them free to any address. Paste them in the fly-leaf of your Rig-Veda, or some other book in constant use, so that, at any moment you will be able to find the proper word. [And here it should be remarked that, granted the word, you have the poem; for thought (that is, a concept) is entirely out of place in a work of the imagination.] There are other tables containing heroine's names, with appropriate rhymes; the list might be indefinitely extended: Mary, airy, fairy; Laura, saw her, adore her: Lucy, truce he, boozy; and so on, ad infinitum. It will also be noticed that one set of rhymes will frequently answer for several heroines; for instance, Dora, Cora, Flora, Leonora, and others. In addition to these tables, long lists of adjectives are furnished, - usually of a dyspeptic, graveyard-like sort, such as despairful, deathly, chillying, somber-seeming, and the like.

The following poem, composed under the fostering influence of these easy rules, will amply set forth the beauties of the new school : -

First I dreamed thee, in the May of childhood,

Distant far through heaven's eternal blue;

Sweet thy footprints in the magic wildwood,

Soft the music of thy Congress shoe.

Drear and dun, all in a mist-land airy,

Dull and dim, down in an undreamed glen,

Lay my lone heart, till it heard thine airy

Laughter streaming through life's loud amen.

Sweetheart, let me clasp thee to my bosom -

Fold the garment of thy love away

In my soul's dark closet, where the ruesome

Noise of grief mars not joy's perfect day!

This is admirable in its metaphorical directness, its passionate simplicity; it is a poem quite out of the common order. Many persons, had they written such glowing words, would feel that their life-work was accomplished. The beauty of the new school lies in its originality and its mystery; for the primary object of the poet should be any thing but clearness. Here now is another species of poem, very justly popular. This indicates the highest stage of progress in the art, and may well be introduced at the conclusion of this humble sketch: -

I sit in the lamplight, weary

Of bumming and grinding both, -

And my soul is very dreary,

And to live I am very loth.

This hair-pin - ah! can I forget her

With the beautiful eyes of blue?

Or the plank walk whereon I met her,

Just wide enough for two !

When the magical touch of her ulster

Thrilled my blood like a ghost?

Ah! now - when I think I have lost her -

I feel that I love her most!

This hair-pin I found on the carpet -

Has it nestled amidst the bright hair

That came from Medina's? How sharp it

Brings back the dire pangs of despair?

There's Billy! What's this? 'Tis her hand, sir,

Miss Belle - "at home" - I shall go:

Do you think (if I asked) she would answer

My question - well, not answer no?