PROSODY.

You know Orthography, my dear,
And Etymology-then here
Was Syntax, which is done.
We're come to Prosody at last,
I'm sure you'll say before 'tis past
"We've had a little fun."

Prose states a plain and simple fact,
Like some delib'rate, calm, cool, act,
Truthful and quite sincere ;
But Prosody, to make it tell,

Accents the words, and measures well
Their tones, to please the ear.

Sly Prosody picks out of prose
Some pithy parts-yet no one knows
What he has dressed anew.
He makes it look so fanciful,
So lovely and fantastical,
'Twould quite enrapture you.

Ch. But why does Prosody do that?
Why does he alter prose-for what?
When it is plain and true.

M. He makes it verse or poetry
To please the fancy-this is why

I make Heart's-ease for you.

Language is called "The dress of thought,"

Prose may be elegant when bought

From education rare.

When dressed 'tis lofty, dignified,

Yet loveliest when simplified

By modesty and care.

It may be gorgeously decked out,
Studded with diamonds round about,
Jewels and pearls too.

They who adorn our language so
Are gifted poets, don't you know?
But these are very few.

Many indeed make poetry
Of gaudy, tawdry trumpery
To captivate the sight;

But then it merely dazzles you,
For it is tinselled and untrue,
And cannot stand the light.

VERSIFICATION.

Language expressed with emphasis,
Divided-measured-toned like this,
Is versified you see;

But when adorned with golden wings,
And all such grand and gorgeous things,
Then it is poetry.

POETRY.

There's music in the ocean's shell,
There's music in the tinkling bell,
There's music in the sea ;

There's music in the humming-bird,

There's music in a little word

When uttered tenderly.

There's music hidden in the breast ;
Language when feelingly exprest
Is called poetical :

It vibrates through strange magic wires,

Touches the poet's heart

Something electrical.

and fires

This lyre's a stranger instrument
Than any mortal could invent,
Therefore 'tis called a gift;

"Tis low and yet surpassing high,
Tuned somehow most mysteriously,
No one its powers can sift.

When grief or sadness linger near
The heart pours forth a plaintive air,
Muffled, subdued and deep;

When wearied with fatigue and care
It murmurs forth a hymn of prayer,
And then lies down to sleep.

When joy expands her morning wings
The lyre again wakes up, and sings
A cheerful happy air;

Disperses all the gloomy thoughts,
Makes sonnets from "Forget-me-nots,"
And little bouquets rare,

If there be an accomplishment
That we can turn to good intent
It may be poetry;

It gladdens oft a long dull hour,
And can impart a secret power
That lifts the soul on high.

It is the music of the mind,
By cultivating it, we find
An inward heartfelt joy ;

Come, now, we'll try what we can do,

For many quite as small as you,

May thus an hour employ.

'Tis possible to tune the heart,
Amusingly to take a part
In making up a rhyme ;
It is a very harmless way
To spend an hour instead of play,
And thus enjoy the time.

VERSIFICATION.

Music has bars of various length,
Verse too has words requiring strength-
Or emphasis on each ;

They are divided-measured so—
Toned syllabled-and you must know
What I'm about to teach.

BLANK VERSE AND METRE.

Verse has two kinds-blank verse and rhymeThe last has tune as well as time

"Time's merely a repeater;"

Tune chimes in at the end, you'll hear,
The word that sounds with hear is dear:
Then hear and dear are metre.

This metre's made by words, you hear,

Agreeable to please the ear,

Two words can make it rhyme ;

Rhyme may have little meaning too,

A sound without the sense-pooh! pooh!
That is a waste of time.

It must be sensible and wise,

If not then you may all despise

Such very foolish play.

And 'stead of making senseless rhyme,
You're better to employ your time
In some more useful way.