Orpheus charms the gates of hell, Fair Eurydice is free, None dispute her power to be; Pluto cannot say her "No :" Gods and men, subdued, confess Nature's potent sorceress. Sweet in youth's bright summer day, Music's charms assert their sway; Elevate the tone of love, Raise the spirit's gaze above; Loveliest flowers of earth are frail, Sovereign o'er each stubborn heart, Music oft in sorrow's gloom, Fills the heart with peace and hope, Art with Nature sweetly blends, THE HAILEYBURY OBSERVER. READING MAKETH A FULL MAN, CONFERENCE A READY MAN, WRITING AN ACCURATE MAN.-BACON. JUNE 3, 1854. HINTS ON COMPOSITION. "POETA nascitur, non fit," is an old saying, and generally received as an undeniable truth: it is couched in a form easy to be remembered even by the unlearned, and is consequently blurted out by everybody on every possible occasion. It is a most mistaken notion, nevertheless,-a popular error, which well deserves to be exposed. I am sure that I myself was never born a poet; but I think I may say, without vanity (I never was at all vain) that I have succeeded in making myself a very good one;—at least they tell me so at home. Now, my plan of ceeding, in the composition of poetry, is exccedingly simple; and I perceive, by their productions, that most of the contributors to our valued Observer are already well acquainted with it. However, as it is doubtless unknown to the generality of the VOL. VIII.-NO. II. G pro readers of that periodical-if, indeed, such a class really exist out of the circle of the contributors themselves, who for a week after the appearance of every number, may be seen greedily devouring their own productions, and hastily turning over the leaf, if discovered in the act, I think I shall be conferring a great benefit upon them by giving them my own ideas on the subject. The first thing to be considered is, of course, the subject. Now let me earnestly advise every one to avoid most carefully the selection of any subject which requires original ideas,— otherwise he will only run into difficulties, and get nothing for his pains. Fortunately, originality is not at all necessary to constitute a poet. The critic will doubtless sneer at this assertion; but I do not make it unadvisedly, nor without good authority to confirm it. Campbell was not ashamed to confess that there was nothing original in him, "excepting original sin ;”’ and Byron was still more candid when, upon being asked by Moore what volume it was in his hand? he answered, "Only a book from which I am trying to crib, as I do whenever I can ; and that's the way I get the character of an original poet." But perhaps thou fearest, O incipient votary of the Muses, to incur the awful charge of plagiarism, which is, according to Dr. Johnson, the most reproachful, if not the most atrocious, of literary crimes, Permit me to say, that the sooner you get rid of this delicate sensibility, the better. What would you think of a man who took the trouble to go and look for gooseberries, and prick his fingers all over in the search, when he had a dish-ful ready gathered by his side? No doubt, if you had had the good fortune to be born in the time of Homer, instead of in the 19th century, you would have been quite as original as he was; but myriads of poets have come into the world before your time, and each of them has appropriated some new ideas. The stock cannot be expected to last for ever :-if you are obliged to plagiarize, it is your misfortune, not your fault. When the young poet has thus overcome his scruples, and cribbed" his ideas; his task becomes comparatively easy; he has nothing to do but to be careful that every line has the right number of syllables, and a good rhyme at the end of it. Let him begin with such a subject as "An Ode to the Moon," in which he will find plenty of ideas, and the stereotyped commencement, "O thou!" ready to his hands. The ballad style is also very much to be commended. The Lady (written with considerable effect "Ladye") Edith sits in her bower, weeping. Why is the lady sad? Simply because her lord has been absent in the Holy Land for twelve long months and a day (why the day, I never could make out), and within that period he had promised his bride that, if living, he would return. A pilgrim craves shelter for the night, and is conducted into her presence: he tells her that he has come from Palestine, and that her lord has dishonoured his name on the battle-field. This she indignantly refuses to believe, and bids him begone: instead of complying with which request he throws aside his pilgrim's weeds, and her lord himself stands before her in all the gorgeous panoply of a knight. This thrilling tale is to be found slightly varied in the writings of a dozen different poets at least. It may be extended to almost any length, and has this very great advantage, that the number of syllables in each line need not be very carefully kept, and the first and third line of each verse need not rhyme at all. Hence, a poem in this style will cost only half the trouble of an "Ode to the Moon." But on the whole I should recommend love sonnets as the easiest and most effective style of composition. The works of every poet teem with them; indeed, the only difficulty in such a wilderness of flowers is to cull the choicest buds, and at the same time to keep your own nosegay within a reasonable limit. The selection once made, you have nothing to do but to write down your first line, taking care to end it with some word to which you can easily find abundance of rhymes, and try each of these in succession, till you find one to suit ;-the same for the next couplet, and so on, ad infinitum. May I hope to stand excused if I introduce a few lines of my own, composed upon this system? They run thus :— To Come, rest on this bosom! thou wilt not find Another so fond to be: As the ivy around the oak is twined, So, dearest one, cling to me! The loveliest flowers of life will seem And when sorrow shall fall, as fall it must, Let us still to each other for solace trust, And thus, when life's latest, bitterest hour, Bids sorrow and joy to cease, Together we'll brave the grim tyrant's power, Together we'll rest in peace! Very pretty, are they not? No one would ever suspect how they were made, and I feel as if I were committing a desecration in revealing the secret. Moore has a poem beginning, "Come, rest on this bosom, my own stricken deer!" from which, thinking it convenient for my purpose, I without hesitation appropriated the first half line. The idea of the ivy and the oak I had met with a thousand times; out of this I manufactured a couple of lines, thus leaving myself only half the first line and the whole of the second to complete the stanza. The gap was easily filled up, as I had already taken good care to close my last two lines with the words " twined" and "me," which present considerable facilities for rhyming. The rest of the verses were composed in exactly the same manner. |