Concerning melodious metrical composition which bears a close affinity to prose, my views are of the following kind. The prime factor here too, just as in the case of poetical prose, is the collocation of the words themselves; next, the composition of the clauses; third, the arrangement of the periods. He who wishes to succeed in this department must change the words about and connect them with each other in manifold ways, and make the clauses begin and end at various places within the lines, not allowing their sense to be self-contained in separate verses, but breaking up the measure. He must make the clauses vary in length and form, and will often also reduce them to phrases which are shorter than clauses, and will make the periods — those at any rate which adjoin one another — neither equal in size nor alike in construction; for an elastic treatment of rhythms and metres seems to bring verse quite near to prose. Now those authors who compose in epic or iambic verse, or use the other regular metres, cannot diversify their poetical works with many metres or rhythms, but must always adhere to the same metrical form. But the lyric poets can include many metres and rhythms in a single period. So that when the writers of monometers break up the lines by distributing them into clauses now one way now another, they dissolve and efface the regularity of the metre; and when they diversify the periods in size and form, they make us forget the metre. On the other hand, the lyric poets compose their strophes in many metres; and again, from the fact that the clauses vary from time to time in length and form, they make the divisions unlike in form and size. From both these causes they hinder our apprehension of any uniform rhythm, and so they produce, as by design, in lyric poems a great likeness to prose. It is quite possible, moreover, for the poems to retain many figurative, unfamiliar, exceptional, and otherwise poetical words, and none the less to show a close resemblance to prose.
And let no one think me ignorant of the fact that the so-called “pedestrian character” is commonly regarded as a vice in poetry, or impute to me, of all persons, the folly of ranking any bad quality among the virtues of poetry or prose. Let my critic rather pay attention and learn how here once more I claim to distinguish what merits serious consideration from what is worthless. I observe that, among prose styles, there is on the one side the uncultivated style, by which I mean the prevailing frivolous gabble, and on the other side the language of public life which is, in the main, studied and artistic; and so, whenever I find any poetry which resembles the frivolous gabble I have referred to, I regard it as beneath criticism. I think that alone to be fit for serious imitation which resembles the studied and artistic kind. Now, if each sort of prose had a different appellation, it would have been only consistent to call the corresponding sorts of poetry also by different names. But since both the good and the worthless are called “prose,” it may not be wrong to regard as noble and bad “poetry” that which resembles noble and contemptible prose respectively, and not to be in any way disturbed by mere identity of terms. The application of similar names to different things will not prevent us from discerning the true nature of the things in either case.
As I have gone so far as to deal with this subject, I will end by subjoining a few examples of the features in question. From epic poetry it will be enough to quote the following lines: —
But he from the haven went where the rugged pathway led.
Here we have one clause. Observe the next —
Up the wooded land.
It is shorter than the other, and cuts the line in two. The third is —
through the hills:
a segment still shorter than a clause. The fourth —
unto where Athene had said
That he should light on the goodly swineherd —
consists of two half-lines and is in no way like the former. Then the conclusion —
the man who best
Gave heed to the goods of his lord, of the thralls that Odysseus
possessed,
which leaves the third line unfinished, while by the addition of the fourth it loses all undue uniformity. Then again —
By the house-front sitting he found him,
where once more the words do not run out the full course of the line.
there where the courtyard wall
Was builded tall.
This, too, does not balance the former. Further, the order of ideas in the continuation of the passage is unperiodic, though the words are cast into the form of clauses and sections. For, after adding
In a place with a clear view round about,
we shall find him subjoining:
Massy and fair to behold,
which is a segment shorter than a clause. Next we find
Free on every side,
where the one Greek word (περίδρομος) by itself carries a certain meaning. And so on: we shall find him elaborating everything that follows in the same way. Why go into unnecessary detail?
From iambic poetry may be taken these lines of Euripides: —
Fatherland, ta’en by Pelops in possession,
Hail!
Thus far the first clause extends.
And thou, Pan, who haunt’st the stormy steeps
Of Arcady.
So far the second extends.
Whereof I boast my birth.
That is the third. The former are longer than a line; the last is shorter.
Me Auge, Aleus’ daughter, not of wedlock
Bare to Tirynthian Heracles.
And afterwards —
This knows
Yon hill Parthenian.
Not one of these corresponds exactly to a line. Then once more we find another clause which is from one point of view less than a line and from the other longer —
where the Travail-queen
From birth-pangs set my mother free.
And similarly with the lines which follow these.
From lyric poetry the subjoined lines of Simonides may be taken. They are written according to divisions: not into those clauses for which Aristophanes or some other metrist laid down his canons, but into those which are required by prose. Please read the piece carefully by divisions: you may rest assured that the rhythmical arrangement of the ode will escape you, and you will be unable to guess which is the strophe or which the antistrophe or which the epode, but you will think it all one continuous piece of prose. The subject is Danaë, borne across the sea lamenting her fate: —
And when, in the carved ark lying,
She felt it through darkness drifting
Before the drear wind’s sighing
And the great sea-ridges lifting,
She shuddered with terror, she brake into weeping,
And she folded her arms round Perseus sleeping;
And “Oh my baby,” she moaned, “for my lot
Of anguish! — but thou, thou carest not:
Adown sleep’s flood is thy child-soul sweeping,
Though beams brass-welded on every side
Make a darkness, even had the day not died
When they launched thee forth at gloaming-tide.
And the surf-crests fly o’er thy sunny hair
As the waves roll past — thou dost not care:
Neither carest thou for the wind’s shrill cry,
As lapped in my crimson cloak thou dost lie
On my breast, little face so fair — so fair!
Ah, were these sights, these sounds of fear
Fearsome to thee, that dainty ear
Would hearken my words — nay, nay, my dear,
Hear them not thou! Sleep, little one, sleep;
And slumber thou, O unrestful deep!
Sleep, measureless wrongs; let the past suffice:
And oh, may a new day’s dawn arise
On thy counsels, Zeus! O change them now!
But if aught be presumptuous in this my prayer,
If aught, O Father, of sin be there,
Forgive it thou.”
Such are the verses and lyrics which resemble beautiful prose; and they owe this resemblance to the causes which I have already set forth to you.
Here, then, Rufus, is my gift to you, which you will find “outweigh a multitude of others,” if only you will keep it in your hands constantly like any other really useful thing, and exercise yourself in its lessons daily. No rules contained in rhetorical manuals can suffice to make experts of those who are determined to dispense with study and practice. They who are ready to undergo toil and hardship can alone decide whether such rules are trivial and useless, or worthy of serious consideration.