iHlAOmNGEGF 
 pGUSM POETRY 
 
 flENTIETH GENTURY 
 
 WiLLlAM LYON PHELPS 
 

 CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME 
 OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT 
 FUND GIVEN IN 189I BY 
 
 HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE 
 
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 Cornell University Library 
 PR 601.P54 
 
 The advance of English poetry in the twe 
 
 3 1924 013 269 224 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013269224 
 
THE ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 IN THE TWENTIETH CENTURY 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 The Advance of the English Novel 
 
 Archibald Mabshall 
 
 The Beginnings of the English Ro- 
 mantic Movement 
 
 Essays on Modekn Novelists 
 
 Essays on Russian Novelists 
 
 Essays on Books 
 
 Beowning: How to Know Him 
 
 Teaching in School and College ' 
 
THE 
 
 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 IN THE TWENTIETH CENTURY 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM LYON PHELPS 
 
 Lampson Professor of English Literature at Yale 
 
 Member of the National Institute of 
 
 Arts and Letters 
 
 01 't is an easy thing 
 To write and sing; 
 But to write true, unfeigned verse 
 Is very hard/ 
 
 — Hekry Vaughan, 1655 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
 
 1918 
 
Copyright, 1917. 1918 
 By DODD, mead AND COMPANY, Inc. 
 
 VAIL-BALLOU COMPANY 
 
 BINQHAMTON AND NEW YORK 
 
 xV 
 
TO 
 
 MY FRIEND FOR FORTY YEARS 
 
 FRANK W. HUBBARD 
 
 
ACKNOWLEDGMENT 
 
 The publishers of the works of the poets from 
 whom illustrative passages are cited in this vol- 
 ume, have courteously and generously given per- 
 mission, and I take this opportunity of expressing 
 my thanks to The Macmillan Company, who pub- 
 lish the poems of Thomas Hardy, WUliam Wat- 
 son, John Masefield, W. W. Gibson, Ealph Hodg- 
 son, W. B. Yeats, "A. E.," James Stephens, 
 E. A. Robinson, Vachel Lindsay, Amy Lowell, 
 Edgar Lee Masters, Sara Teasdale, J. C. Under- 
 wood, Fannie Stearns Davis ; to Henry Holt and 
 Company, who publish the poems of Walter De 
 La Mare, Edward Thomas, Padraic Colum, Rob- 
 ert Frost, Louis Untermeyer, Sarah N. Cleg- 
 horn, Margaret Widdemer, Carl Sandburg, and 
 the two poems by Henry A. Beers quoted in this 
 book, which appeared in The Ways of Yale; to 
 Charles Scribner's Sons, publishers of the poems 
 of George Santayana, Henry Van Dyke, Corinne 
 Roosevelt Robinson, Alan Seeger; to Houghton, 
 Mifflin and Company, publishers of the poems 
 of Josephine Peabody, Anna Hempstead Branch, 
 and W. A. Bradley's Old Christmas; to The 
 John Lane Company, publishers of the poems 
 of Stephen Phillips, Rupert Brooke, Ben- 
 
viii ACKNOWLEDGMENT 
 
 jamin E. C. Low; to the Frederick A. Stokes 
 ' Company, publishers of the poems of Alfred 
 Noyes, Eobert Nichols, Thomas MacDonagh, 
 Witter Bynner; to the Yale University Press, 
 publishers of the poems of W. A. Percy, 
 Brian Hooker, W. E. Benet, C. M. Lewis, E. B. 
 Eeed, F. E. Pierce, E. B. Glaenzer, L. W. Dodd; 
 to the Oxford University Press, publishers of 
 the poems of Eobert Bridges ; to Alfred A. Knopf, 
 publisher of the poems of W. H. Davies ; to John 
 W. Luce and Company, publishers of the poems 
 of John M. Synge; to Harper and Brothers, pub- 
 lishers of William Watson's The Man Who Saw; 
 to Longmans, Green and Company, publishers of 
 the poems of Willoughby Weaving; to Double- 
 day, Page and Company, publishers of the poems 
 of James Elroy Flecker; to the Bobbs-Merrill 
 Company, publishers of the poems of W. D. 
 Foulke; to Thomas B. Mosher, publisher of the 
 poems of W. A. Bradley, W. E. Henley ; to James 
 T. White and Company, publishers of William 
 Griffiths; Francis Thompson's In No Strange 
 Land appeared in the Athenceum and Lilium 
 Regis in the Dublin Review; the poem by 
 Scudder Middleton appeared in Contemporary 
 Verse, that by Allan Updegraff in the Forum, and 
 that by D. H. Lawrence in Georgian Poetry 
 1913-15, published by The Poetry Bookshop, 
 London. 
 
 The titles of the several volumes of poems with 
 dates of publication are given in my text. 
 
ACKNOWLEDGMENT is 
 
 I am grateful to tlie Yale University Librarians 
 for help on bibliograpMcal matters, and to Pro- 
 fessor Charles Bennett and Byrne Hackett, Es- 
 quire, for giving some facts about the Irish poets. 
 
 W. L. P. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 The material in this volume originally ap- 
 peared in The Bookman, 1917-1918. It is now 
 published with much addition and revision. 
 
 The Great War has had a stimulating effect on 
 the production of poetry. Professional poets 
 have been spokesmen for the inarticulate, and a 
 host of hitherto unknown writers have acquired 
 reputation. An immense amount of verse has 
 been written by soldiers in active service. The 
 jiUies are fighting for himian liberty, and this 
 Idea is an inspiration. It is comforting to know 
 that some who have made the supreme sacrifice 
 will be remembered through their printed poems, 
 and it is a pleasure to aid in giving them public 
 recognition. 
 
 Furthermore, the war, undertaken by Germany 
 to dominate the world by crushing the power of 
 Great Britain, has united all English-speaking 
 people as nothing else could have done. In this 
 book, all poetry written in the English language 
 is considered as belonging to EngUsh literature. 
 
 It should be apparent that I am not a sectarian 
 in art, but am thankftd for poetry wherever I find 
 it. I have endeavored to make clear the artistic, 
 intellectual, and spiritual significance of many of 
 
xii PREFACE 
 
 our contemporary English-writing poets. The 
 difficulties of such an undertaking are obvious; 
 but there are two standards of measure. One is 
 the literature of the past, the other is the life 
 of today. I judge every new poet by these. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTEE PAGE 
 
 I Some Contrasts — Henley, Thompson, Haedt', 
 
 Kipling 1 
 
 II Phillips, "Watson, Notes, Housman .... 35 
 
 III John Masefield 71 
 
 IV GffiSON and Hodgson 98 
 
 V Brooke, Flecker, De La Mare, and Others . . 124 
 
 VI The Irish Poets 157 
 
 VII American Veterans and Forerunners . . . 194 
 
 VIII Vachbl Lindsay and Eobert Frost .... 213 
 
 IX Amy Lowell, Anna Branch, Edgar Lee Mas- 
 ters, Louis Untermeyer 245 
 
 X Sara Teasdale, Alan Seeger, and Others . . 277 
 
 XI A Group op Tale Poets 312 
 
 Appendix 335 
 
 Index 339 
 
THE ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 IN THE TWENTIETH CENTURY 
 
THE ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 IN THE TWENTIETH CENTURY 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 SOME CONTEASTS HENLEY, THOMPSON, HAEDY, 
 
 KIPLING 
 
 Meaning of the word "advance" — the present widespread in- 
 terest in poetry — the spiritual warfare — Henley and Thompson 
 — Thomas Hardy a prophet in literature — The Dynasts — his 
 atheism — his lyrical power — Kipling the Victorian — his future 
 possibilities — Robert Bridges — Robert W. Service. 
 
 Although English poetry of the twentieth cen- 
 tury seems inferior to the poetry of the Victorian 
 epoch, for in England there is no one equal to Ten- 
 nyson or Browning, and in America no one equal 
 to Poe, Eimerson, or Whitman, still it may fairly be 
 said that we can discern an advance in English po- 
 etry not wholly to be measured either by the calen- 
 dar and the clock, or by sheer beauty of expression. 
 I should not like to say that Joseph Conrad is a 
 greater writer than Walter Scott ; and yet in The 
 Nigger of the Narcissus there is an intellectual 
 sincerity, a profound psychological analysis, a 
 resolute intention to discover and to reveal the 
 ■final truth concerning the children of the sea, that 
 one would hardly expect to find in the works of the 
 wonderful Wizard. Shakespeare was surely a 
 
 1 
 
2 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 greater poet than Wordsworth ; but the man of the 
 Lakes, with the rich inheritance of two centuries, 
 had a capital of thought unpossessed by the great 
 dramatist, which, invested by his own genius, en- 
 abled him to draw returns from nature undreamed 
 of by his mighty predecessor. "Wordsworth was 
 not great enough to have written King Lear; and 
 Shakespeare was not late enough to have written 
 Tintern Abbey. Every poet lives in his own 
 time, has a share in its scientific and philosophical 
 advance, and his individuality is coloured hy his 
 experience. Even if he take a Greek myth for a 
 subject, he will regard it and treat it in the light 
 of the day when he sits down at his desk, and ad- 
 dresses himself to the task of composition. It is 
 absurd to call the Victorians old-fashioned or out 
 of date ; they were as intensely modern as we, only 
 their modernity is naturally not ours. 
 
 A great work of art is never old-fashioned ; be- 
 cause it expresses in final form some truth ahout 
 human nature, and human nature never changes — 
 in comparison with its primal elements, the moun- 
 tains are ephemeral. A drama dealing with the 
 impalpable human soul is more likely to stay true 
 than a treatise on geology. This is the notable ad- 
 vantage that works of art have over works of sci- 
 ence, the advantage of being and remaining true. 
 No matter how important the contribution of sci- 
 entific books, they are alloyed with inevitable er- 
 ror, and after the death of their authors must be 
 constantly revised by lesser men, improved by 
 
SOME CONTRASTS 3 
 
 smaller minds; whereas the masterpieces of po- 
 etry, drama and fiction cannot be revised, because 
 they are always true. The latest edition of a work 
 of science is the most valuable ; of literature, the 
 earliest. 
 
 Apart from the natural and inevitable advance 
 in poetry that every year witnesses, we are liv- 
 ing in an age characterized both in England and 
 in America by a remarkable advance in poetry as 
 a vital influence. Earth's oldest inhabitants prob- 
 ably cannot remember a time when there were so 
 many poets in activity, when so many books of 
 poems were not only read, but bought and sold, 
 when poets were held in such high esteem, when so 
 much was written and published about poetry, 
 when the mere forms of verse were the theme of 
 such hot debate. There are thousands of minor 
 poets, but poetry has ceased to be a minor subject. 
 Any one mentally alive cannot escape it. Poetry 
 is in the air, and everybody is catching it. Some 
 American magazines are exclusively devoted to the 
 printing of contemporary poems ; anthologies are 
 multiplying, not "Keepsakes" and "Books of 
 Gems," but thick volumes representing the 
 bumper crop of the year. Many poets are reciting 
 their poems to big, eager, enthusiastic audiences, 
 and the atmosphere is charged with the melodies 
 of ubiquitous minstrelsy. 
 
 The time is ripe for the appearance of a great 
 poet. A vast audience is gazing expectantly at 
 a stage crowded with subordinate actors, waiting 
 
4 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 for the Master to appear. The Greek dramatists 
 were sure of their public; so were the Russian' 
 novelists; so were the German musicians. The 
 ' ' conditions ' ' for poetry are intensij&ed by reason 
 of the Great War. We have got everything 
 except the Genius. And the' paradox is that al- 
 though the Genius may arise out of right condi- 
 tions, he may not; he may come like a thief in 
 the night. The contrast between public interest 
 in poetry in 1918 and in 1830, for an illustration, 
 is unescapable. At that time the critics and the 
 magazine writers assured the world that "poetry 
 is dead." Ambitious young authors were gravely 
 advised not to attempt anything in verse — as 
 though youth ever listened to advice! Many 
 critics went so far as to insist that the temper of 
 the age was not "adapted" to poetry, that not 
 only was there no interest in it, but that even if 
 the Man should appear, he would find it impossible 
 to sing in such a time and to such a coldly indif- 
 ferent audience. And yet at that precise mo- 
 ment, Tennyson launched his "chiefly lyrical" 
 volume, and Browning was speedily to follow. 
 
 Man is ever made humble by the facts of life; 
 and even literary critics cannot altogether ignore 
 them. Let us not then make the mistake of be- 
 ing too sure of the immediate future; nor the 
 mistake of overestimating our contemporary 
 poets ; nor the mistake of despising the giant Vic- 
 torians. Let us devoutly thank God that poetry 
 has come into its own; that the modern poet, in 
 
SOME CONTEASTS 5 
 
 public estimation, is a Hero; that no one has to 
 apologize either for reading or for writing verse. 
 An age that loves poetry with the passion char- 
 acteristic of the twentieth century is not a flat or 
 materialistic age. We are not disobedient unto 
 the heavenly vision. 
 
 In the world of thought and spirit this is essen- 
 tially a fighting age. The old battle between the 
 body and the soul, between Paganism and Chris- 
 tianity, was never so hot as now, and those who 
 take refuge in neutrality receive contempt. Pan 
 and Jesus Christ have never had so many enthu- 
 siastic followers. We Christians believe our 
 Leader rose from the dead, and the followers of 
 Pan say their god never died at all. It is sig- 
 nificant that at the beginning of the twentieth cen- 
 tury two English poets wrote side by side, each 
 of whom unconsciously waged an irreconcilable 
 conflict with the other, and each of whom speaks 
 from the grave today to a concourse of followers. 
 These two poets did not "flourish" in the twen- 
 tieth century, because the disciple of the bodily 
 Pan was a cripple, and the disciple of the spirit- 
 ual Christ was a gutter-snipe ; but they both lived, 
 lived abundantly, and wrote real poetry. I refer 
 to William Ernest Henley, who died in 1903, and 
 to Francis Thompson, who died in 1907. 
 
 Both Henley and Thompson loved the crowded 
 streets of London, but they saw different visions 
 there. Henley felt in the dust and din of the city 
 the irresistible urge of spring, the invasion of the 
 
6 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 smell of distant meadows ; the hurly-burly bearing 
 witness to the annual conquest of Pan. 
 
 Here in this radiant and immortal street 
 
 Lavishly and omnipotently as ever 
 
 In the open hills, the undissembling dales, 
 
 The laughing-places of the juvenile earth. 
 
 For lo! the wills of man and woman meet. 
 
 Meet and are moved, each unto each endeared 
 
 As once in Eden's prodigal bowers befel, 
 
 To share his shameless, elemental mirth 
 
 In one great act of faith, while deep and strong. 
 
 Incomparably nerved and cheered. 
 
 The enormous heart of London joys to beat 
 
 To the measures of his rough, majestic song : 
 
 The lewd, perennial, overmastering spell 
 
 That keeps the rolling universe ensphered 
 
 And life and all for which life lives to long 
 
 Wanton and wondrous and for ever well. 
 
 The London Voluntaries of Henley, from which 
 the above is a fair example, may have suggested 
 something to Vachel Lindsay both in their irregu- 
 lar singing quality and in the direction, borrowed 
 from notation, which accompanies each one, 
 Andante con moto, Scherzando, Largo e mesto, 
 Allegro maestoso. Henley's Pagan resistance to 
 Puritan morality and convention, constantly ex- 
 hibited positively in his verse, and negatively in 
 his defiant Introduction to the "Works of Bums and 
 in the famous paper on R. L. S., is the main char- 
 acteristic of his mind and temperament. He was 
 by nature a rebel — a rebel against the Anglican 
 God and against English social conventions. He 
 loved all fighting rebels, and one of his most 
 
W. E. HENLEY 7 
 
 spirited poems deals affectionately with our 
 Southern Confederate soldiers, in the last days of 
 their hopeless struggle. His most famous lyric 
 is an assertion of the indomitable human will in 
 the presence of adverse destiny. This trumpet 
 blast has awakened sympathetic echoes from all 
 sorts and conditions of men, although that creed- 
 less Christian, James Whitcomb Kiley, regarded 
 it with genial contempt, thinking that the philoso- 
 phy it represented was not only futile, but dan- 
 gerous, in that it ignored the deepest facts of 
 human life. He once asked to have the poem read 
 aloud to him, as he had forgotten its exact words, 
 and when the reader finished impressively 
 
 I am the Master of my fate: 
 I am the Captain of my soul — 
 
 "The hell you are," said Riley with a laugh. 
 
 Henley is, of course, interesting not merely be- 
 cause of his paganism, and robust worldliness; he 
 had the poet 's imagination and gift of expression. 
 He loved to take a familiar idea fixed in a familiar 
 phrase, and write a lovely musical variation on 
 the theme. I do not think he ever wrote anything 
 more beautiful than his setting of the phrase 
 "Over the hills and far away," which appealed to 
 his memory much as the three words "Par-far- 
 away^" affected Tennyson. No one can read this 
 little masterpiece without that wonderful sense of 
 melody lingering in the mind after the voice of 
 the singer is silent. 
 
8 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 Where forlorn sunsets flare and fade 
 
 On desolate sea and lonely sand, 
 Out of the silence and the shade 
 
 What is the voice of strange command 
 Calling you still, as friend calls friend 
 
 With love that cannot brook delay, 
 To rise and foUow the ways that wend 
 
 Over the hUls and far away? 
 
 Hark in the city, street on street 
 
 A roaring reach of death and life. 
 Of vortices that clash and fleet 
 
 And ruin in appointed strife. 
 Hark to it calling, calling clear. 
 
 Calling until you cannot stay 
 From dearer things than your own most dear 
 
 Over the hills and far away. 
 
 Out of the sound of ebb and flow. 
 
 Out of the sight of lamp and star. 
 It calls you where the good winds blow, 
 
 And the unchanging meadows are: 
 From faded hopes and hopes agleam. 
 
 It calls you, calls you night and day 
 Beyond the dark into the dream 
 
 Over the hUls and far away. 
 
 In temperament Henley was an Elizabethan. 
 Ben Jonson might have irritated him, but he would 
 have got along very well with Kit Marlowe. He 
 was an Elizabethan in the spaciousness of his 
 mind, in his robust salt-water breeziness, in his 
 hearty, spontaneous singing, and in his deification 
 of the human wiU. The English novelist, Miss 
 Willcocks, a child of the twentieth century, has 
 remarked, "It is by their will that we recognize 
 the Elizabethans, by the will that drove them over 
 
FEANCIS THOMPSON 9 
 
 the seas of passion, as well as over the seas that 
 ebb and flow with the salt tides. . . . For, from a 
 sensitive correspondence with environment our 
 race has passed into another stage; it is marked 
 now by a passionate desire for the mastery of life 
 — a desire, spiritualized in the highest lives, ma- 
 terialized in the lowest, so to mould environment 
 that the lives to come may be shaped to our will. 
 It is this which accounts for the curious likeness in 
 our today with that of the Elizabethans." 
 
 As Henley was an Elizabethan, so his brilliant 
 contemporary, Francis Thompson, was a "meta- 
 physical," a man of the seventeenth century. 
 Like Emerson, he is closer in both form and spirit 
 to the mystical poets that followed the age of 
 Shakespeare than he is to any other group or 
 school. One has only to read Donne, Crashaw, 
 and Vaughan to recognize the kinship. Like these 
 three men of genius, Thompson was not only pro- 
 foundly spiritual — ^he was aflame with religious 
 passion. He was exalted in a mystical ecstasy, 
 all a wonder and a wild desire. He was an in- 
 spired poet, careless of method, careless of form, 
 careless of thought-sequences. The zeal for God 's 
 house had eaten him up. His poetry is like the 
 burning bush, revealing God in the fire. His 
 strange figures of speech, the molten metal of his 
 language, the sincerity of his faith, have given 
 to his poems a persuasive influence which is be- 
 ginning to be felt far and wide, and which, I be- 
 lieve, will never die. One critic complains that the 
 
10 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 young men of Oxford and Cambridge have for- 
 saken Tennyson, and now read only Francis 
 Thompson. He need not be alarmed ; these young 
 men will all come back to Tennyson, for sooner 
 or later, everybody comes back to Tennyson. It is 
 rather a matter of joy that Thompson's religious 
 poetry can make the hearts of young men burn 
 within them. Young men are right in hating con- 
 ventional, empty phrases, words that have lost all 
 hitting power, hollow forms and bloodless cere- 
 monies. Thompson's lips were touched with a 
 live coal from the altar. 
 
 Francis Thompson walked with God. Instead 
 of seeking God, as so many high-minded folk 
 have done in vain, Thompson had the real and 
 overpowering sensation that God was seeking him. 
 The Hound of Heaven was everlastingly after 
 him, pursuing him with the certainty of capture. 
 In trying to escape, he fomid torment; in sur- 
 render, the peace that passes all understanding. 
 That extraordinary poem, which thrillingly de- 
 scribes the eager, searching love of God, like a 
 father looking for a lost child and determined to 
 find him, might be taken as a modern version of 
 the one hundred and thirty-ninth psalm, perhaps 
 the most marvellous of all religious masterpieces. 
 
 Thou compassest my path and my lying down, and art ac- 
 quainted with all my ways. 
 
 Thou hast beset me behind and before, and laid thine hand 
 upon me. 
 
 Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from 
 thy presence? 
 
FEANCIS THOMPSON 11 
 
 If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there; if I make my bed 
 
 in hell, behold, thou art there. 
 If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost 
 
 parts of the sea; 
 Even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall 
 
 hold me. 
 
 The highest spiritual poetry is not that which 
 portrays soul-hunger, the bitterness of the weary 
 search for God; it is that which reveals an in- 
 tense consciousness of the all-enveloping Divine 
 Presence. Children do not seek the love of their 
 parents ; they can not escape its searching, eager, 
 protecting power. We know how Dr. Johnson 
 was affected by the lines 
 
 Quaerens me sedisti lassus 
 Eedemisti crucem passus 
 Tantus labor non sit passus. 
 
 Francis Thompson's long walks by day and by 
 night had magnificent company. In the country, 
 in the streets of London, he was attended by sera- 
 phim and cherubim. The heavenly visions were 
 more real to him than London Bridge. Just as 
 when we travel far from those we love, we are 
 brightly aware of their presence, and know that 
 their affection is a greater reality than the scen- 
 ery from the train window, so Thompson would 
 have it that the angels were all about us. They do 
 not live in some distant Paradise, the only gate 
 to which is death— they are here now, and their 
 element is the familiar atmosphere of earth. 
 Shortly after he died, there was found among 
 
12 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 his papers a bit of manuscript verse, called "In 
 No Strange Land." Whether it was a first draft 
 which he meant to revise, or whether he intended 
 it for publication, we cannot tell ; but despite the 
 roughnesses of rhythm — which take us back to 
 some of Donne's shaggy and splendid verse — the 
 thought is complete. It is one of the great poems 
 of the twentieth century, and expresses the es- 
 sence of Thompson's religion. 
 
 "IN NO STRANGE LAND" 
 
 world invisible, we view thee: 
 
 world intangible, we touch thee : 
 O world unknowable, we know' thee : 
 
 Inapprehensible, we clutch thee! 
 
 Does the fish soar to find the ocean. 
 
 The eagle plunge to find the air, 
 That we ask of the stars in motion 
 
 If they have rumour of thee there? 
 
 Not where the wheeling systems darken, 
 And our benumbed conceiving soars : 
 
 The drift of pinions, would we barken, 
 Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors. 
 
 The angels keep their ancient places — 
 Turn but a stone, and start a wing ! 
 
 'Tis ye, 'tis your estranged faces 
 
 That miss the many-splendoured thing. 
 
 But (when so sad thou canst not sadder) 
 
 Cry; and upon thy so sore loss 
 Shall shine the traffic of Jacob's ladder 
 
 Pitched betwixt Heaven and Charing Cross. 
 
FEANCIS THOMPSON 13 
 
 Yea, in the night, my Soul, my daughter, 
 
 Cry, clinging heaven by the hems : 
 And lo, Christ walking on the water. 
 
 Not of Gennesareth, but Thames! 
 
 Thompson planned a series of Ecclesiastical 
 Ballads, of which he completed only two — Lilium 
 Regis and The Veteran of Heaven. These were 
 found among his papers, and were published in 
 the January-4.pril 1910 number of the Dublin Re- 
 view. Both are great poems; but Lilium Regis 
 is made doubly impressive by the present war. 
 With the clairvoyance of approaching death, 
 Thompson foresaw the world-struggle, the tempo- 
 rary eclipse of the Christian Church, and its ulti- 
 mate triumph. The Lily of the King is Christ's 
 Holy Church. I do not see how any one can read 
 this poem without a thrill. 
 
 LILIUM REGIS 
 
 Lily of the King ! low lies thy silver wing, 
 
 And long has been the hour of thine unqueening; 
 
 And thy scent of Paradise on the night-wind spills its sighs. 
 
 Nor any take the secrets of its meaning. 
 
 Lily of the King ! I speak a heavy thing, 
 
 patience, most sorrowful of daughters! 
 
 Lo, the hour is at hand for the troubling of the land. 
 
 And red shall be the breaking of the waters. 
 
 Sit fast upon thy stalk, when the blast shall with thee talk, 
 
 "With the mercies of the king for thine awning ; 
 
 And the just understand that thine hour is at hand. 
 
 Thine hour at hand with power in the dawtiing. 
 
 When the nations He in blood, and their kings a broken brood, 
 
 Look up, most sorrowful of daughters ! 
 
14 ADVANCE OF ENaLISH POETEY 
 
 Lift up thy head and hark what sounds are in the dark, 
 For His feet are coming to thee on the waters! 
 
 Lily of the King ! I shall not see, that sing, 
 
 1 shall not see the hour of thy queening ! 
 
 But my song shall see, and wake, like a flower that dawn-winds 
 
 shake. 
 And sigh with joy the odours of its meaning. 
 Lily of the King, remember then the thing 
 That this dead mouth sang; and thy daughters. 
 As they dance before His way, sing there on the Day, 
 What I sang when the Night was on the waters ! 
 
 There is a man of genius living in England to- 
 day "who has been writing verse for sixty years, 
 but who received no public recognition as a poet 
 until the twentieth century. This man is Thomas 
 Hardy. He has the double distinction of being 
 one of the great Victorian novelists, and one of 
 the most notable poets of the twentieth century. 
 At nearly eighty years of age, he is in full in- 
 tellectual vigour, enjoys a creative power in verse 
 that we more often associate with youth, and 
 writes poetry that in matter and m^anner belongs 
 distinctly to our time. He could not possibly be 
 omitted from any survey of contemporary pro- 
 duction. 
 
 As is so commonly the case with distinguished 
 novelists, Thomas Hardy practised verse before 
 prose. From 1860 to 1870 he wrote many poems, 
 some of which appear among the Love Lyrics in 
 Time's Laughingstocks, 1909. Then he began a 
 career in prose fiction which has left him today 
 without a living rival in the world. In 1898, with 
 
THOMAS HAEDY 15 
 
 the volume called Wessex Poems, embellished with 
 illustrations from his own hand, he challenged 
 criticism as a professional poet. The moderate 
 but definite success of this collection emboldened 
 him to produce in 1901, Poems of the Past and 
 Present. In 1904, 1906, 1908, were issued suc- 
 cessively the three parts of The Dynasts, a thor- 
 oughly original and greatly-planned epical drama 
 of the Napoleonic wars. This was followed by 
 three books of verse. Time's Laughing stoclis in 
 1909, Satires of Circumstance, 1914, and Moments 
 of Vision, 1917 ; and he is a familiar and welcome 
 guest in contemporary magazines. 
 
 Is it possible that when,- at the close of the nine- 
 teenth century, Thomas Hardy formally aban- 
 doned prose for verse, he was either consciously or 
 subconsciously aware of the coming renaissance 
 of poetry? Certainly his change in expression 
 had more significance than an individual caprice. 
 It is a notable fact that the present poetic revival, 
 wherein are enlisted so many enthusiastic youth- 
 ful volunteers, should have had as one of its 
 prophets and leaders a veteran of such power and 
 fame. Perhaps Mr. Hardy would regard his own 
 personal choice as no factor; the Immanent and 
 Unconscious Will had been busy in his mind, for 
 reasons unknown to him, unknown to man, least 
 of all known to Itself. Leslie Stephen once re- 
 marked, "The deepest thinker is not really— 
 though we often use the phrase— in advance of 
 
16 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 Ms day so mucli as in the line along which ad- 
 vance takes place." 
 
 Looking backward from the year 1918, we may 
 see some new meaning in the spectacle of two 
 modem leaders in fiction, Hardy and Meredith, 
 each preferring as a means of expression poetry 
 to prose, each thinking his own verse better than 
 his novels, and each writing verse that in sub- 
 stance and manner belongs more to the twen- 
 tieth than to the nineteenth century. Meredith 
 always said that fiction was his kitchen wench; 
 poetry was his Muse. 
 
 The publication of poems written when he was 
 about twenty-five is interesting to students of Mr. 
 Hardy's temperament, for they show that he was 
 then as complete, though perhaps not so philo- 
 sophical a pessimist, as he is now. The present 
 world-war may seem to him a vindication of his 
 despair, and therefore proof of the blind folly 
 of those who pray to Our Father in Heaven. He 
 is, though I think not avowedly so, an adherent 
 of the philosophy of Schopenhauer and von Hart- 
 mann. The primal force, from which all things 
 proceed, is the Immanent Will. The Will is un- 
 conscious and omnipotent. It is superhuman only 
 in power, lacking intelligence, foresight, and any 
 sense of ethical values. In The Dynasts, Mr. 
 Hardy has written an epic illustration of the doc- 
 trines of pessimism. 
 
 Supernatural machinery and celestial inspira- 
 tion have always been more or less conventional in 
 
THOMAS HAEDY 17 
 
 the Epic. Ancient writers invoked the Muse. 
 When Milton began his great task, he wished to 
 produce something classic in form and Christian 
 in spirit. He found an admirable solution of his 
 problem in a double invocation — first of the Heav- 
 enly Muse of Mount Sinai, second, of the Holy- 
 Spirit. In the composition of In Memoriam, 
 Tennyson knew that an invocation of the Muse 
 would give an intolerable air of artificiality to 
 the poem; he therefore, in the introductory- 
 stanzas, offered up a prayer to the Son of God. 
 Now it was impossible for Mr. Hardy to make 
 use of Greek Deities, or of Jehovah, or of any 
 revelation of God in Christ ; to his mind all three 
 equally belonged to the lumber-room of discredited 
 and discarded myth. He believes that any con- 
 ception of the Primal Force as a Personality is 
 not only obsolete among thinking men and women, 
 biit that it is unworthy of modern thought. It is 
 perhaps easy to mistake our own world of thought 
 for the thought of the world. 
 
 In his Preface, written with assurance and 
 dignity, Mr. Hardy says : ' ' The wide prevalence 
 of the Monistic theory of the Universe forbade, in 
 this twentieth century, the importation of Divine 
 personages from any antique Mythology as ready- 
 made sources or channels of Causation, even in 
 verse, and excluded the celestial machinery of, say. 
 Paradise Lost, as peremptorily as that of the 
 Iliad or the Eddas. And the abandonment of the 
 masculine pronoun in allusions to the First or 
 
18 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 Fundamental Energy seemed a necessary and 
 logical consequence of the long abandonment by 
 thinkers of the anthropomorphic conception of 
 the same. ' ' Accordingly he arranged a group of 
 Phantom Intelligences that supply adequately a 
 Chorus and a philosophical basis for his world- 
 drama. 
 
 Like Browning in the original preface to 
 Paracelsus, our author expressly disclaims any 
 intention of writing a play for the stage. It is 
 "intended simply for mental performance," and 
 "Whether mental performance alone may not 
 eventually be the fate of all drama other than 
 that of contemporary or frivolous life, is a kin- 
 dred question not without interest." The ques- 
 tion has been since answered in another way than 
 that implied, not merely by the success of com- 
 munity drama, but by the actual production of 
 The Dynasts on the London stage under the di- 
 rection of the brilliant and audacious Granville 
 Barker. I would give much to have witnessed 
 this experiment, which Mr. Barker insists was suc- 
 cessful. 
 
 Whether The Dynasts will finally take a place 
 among the world's masterpieces of literature or 
 not, must of course be left to future generations 
 to decide. Two things are clear. The publica- 
 tion of the second and third parts distinctly raised 
 public opinion of the work as a whole, and now 
 that it is ten years old, we know that no man on 
 earth except Mr. Hardy could have written it. 
 
THOMAS HAEDY 19 
 
 To produce this particular epic required a poet, 
 a prose master, a dramatist, a philosopher, and 
 an architect. Mr. Hardy is each and all of the 
 five, and by no means least an architect. The plan 
 of the whole thing, in one hundred and thirty 
 scenes, which seemed at first confused, now ap- 
 pears in retrospect orderly; and the projection of 
 the various geographical scenes is thoroughly 
 architectonic. 
 
 If the work fails to survive, it will be because 
 of its low elevation on the purely literary side. 
 In spite of occasional powerful phrases, as 
 
 What corpse is curious on the longitude 
 And situation of his cemetery ! 
 
 the verse as a whole wants beauty of tone and 
 felicity of diction. It is more like a map than a 
 painting. One has only to recall the extraordi- 
 nary charm of the Elizabethans to understand 
 why so many pages in TJie Dynasts arouse only an 
 intellectual interest. But no one can read the 
 whole drama without an immense respect for the 
 range and the grasp of the author's mind. Fur- 
 thermore, every one of its former admirers ought 
 to reread it in 1918. The present world-war gives 
 to this Napoleonic epic an acute and prophetic 
 interest nothing short of astounding. 
 
 A considerable number of Mr. Hardy's poems 
 are concerned with the idea of Grod, apparently 
 never far from the author's mind. I suppose he 
 thinks of God every day. Yet his faith is the op- 
 
20 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 posite of that expressed in the Eownd of Heaven 
 — in few words, it seems to be, "Resist the Lord, 
 and He will flee from you. ' ' Mr. Hardy is not con- 
 tent with banishing God from the realm of mod- 
 ern thought ; he is not content merely with killing 
 Him ; he means to give Him a decent burial, with 
 fitting obsequies. And there is a long procession 
 of mourners, some of whom are both worthy 
 and distinguished. In the interesting poem, 
 God's Funeral, written in 1908-1910, which be- 
 gins 
 
 I saw a slowly stepping train — 
 Lined on the brows, scoop-eyed and bent and hoar — - 
 Following in files across a twiUt plain 
 A strange and mystic form the foremost bore 
 
 the development of the conception of God through 
 human history is presented with skill in concision. 
 He was man-like at first, then an amorphous cloud, 
 then endowed with mighty wings, then jealous, 
 fierce, yet long-suffering and full of mercy. 
 
 And, tricked by our own early dream 
 And need of solace, we grew self -deceived, 
 Our making soon our maker did we dream. 
 And what we had imagined we believed. 
 
 Till, in Tune's stayless stealthy swing. 
 Uncompromising rude reality 
 Mangled the Monarch of our fashioning, 
 Who quavered, sank; and now has ceased to be. 
 
 Among the mourners is no less a person than the 
 poet himself, for in former years — perhaps as a 
 boy — he, too, had worshipped, and therefore he 
 
THOMAS HAEDY 21 
 
 has no touch, of contempt for those who still be- 
 lieve. 
 
 I could not prop their faith : and yet 
 Many I had known: with all I sympathized; 
 And though struck speechless, I did not forget 
 That what Was mourned for, I, too, once had prized. 
 
 In the next stanza, the poet's oft-expressed be- 
 lief in the wholesome, antiseptic power of pessi- 
 mism is reiterated, together with a hint, that when 
 we have once and for all put God in His grave, 
 some better way of bearing life's burden will be 
 found, because the new way will be based upon 
 hard fact. 
 
 StiU, how to bear such loss I deemed 
 The insistent question for each animate mind, 
 And gazing, to my growing sight there seemed 
 A pale yet positive gleam low down behind, 
 
 Whereof, to lift the general night, 
 A certain few who stood aloof had said, 
 "See you upon the horizon that small light — 
 Swelling somewhat?" Each mourner shook his head. 
 
 And they composed a crowd of whom 
 Some were right good, and many nigh the best. . . . 
 Thus dazed and puzzled 'twixt the gleam and gloom 
 Mechanically I followed with the rest. 
 
 This pale gleam takes on a more vivid hue in a 
 poem written shortly after God's Funeral, called 
 A Plaint to Man, where G-od remonstrates with 
 man for having created Him at all, since His life 
 was to be so short and so futile : 
 
22 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 And tomorrow the whole of me disappears, 
 The truth should be told, and the fact be faced 
 That had best been faced in earlier years : 
 
 The fact of life with dependence placed 
 On the human heart's resource alone. 
 In brotherhood bonded close and graced 
 
 With loving-kindness fully blown. 
 And visioned help unsought, unknown. 
 
 Other poems that express what is and what 
 ought to be the attitude of man toward God are 
 New Year's Eve, To Sincerity, and the beautiful 
 lyric, Let Me Enjoy, where Mr. Hardy has been 
 more than usually successful in fashioning both 
 language and rhythm into a garment worthy of 
 the thought. No one can read The Impercipient 
 without recognizing that Mr. Hardy's atheism 
 is as honest and as sincere as the religious faith 
 of others, and that no one regrets the blankness 
 of his universe more than he. He would believe 
 if he could. 
 
 Pessimism is the basis of all his verse, as it 
 is of his prose. It is expressed not merely 
 philosophically in poems of ideas, but over and 
 over again concretely in poems of incident. He 
 is a pessimist both in fancy and in fact, and after 
 reading some of our sugary "glad" books, I find 
 his bitter taste rather refreshing. The titles of 
 his recent collections, Time's Laughing stocks and 
 Satires of Circumstance, sufficiently indicate the 
 ill fortune awaiting his personages. At his best, 
 his lyrics written in the minor key have a noble, 
 
THOMAS HAEDY 23 
 
 solemn adagio movement. At his worst — for like 
 all poets, lie is sometimes at his worst — the truth 
 of life seems rather obstinately warped. Why- 
 should legitimate love necessarily bring misery, 
 and illegitimate passion produce permanent hap- 
 piness? And in the piece, "Ah, are you digging 
 on my grave?" pessimism approaches a reductio 
 ad absurdum. 
 
 Dramatic power, which is one of its author's 
 greatest gifts, is frequently finely revealed. After 
 reading A Tramp-woman's Tragedy, one unhesi- 
 tatingly accords Mr. Hardy a place among the 
 English writers of ballads. For this is a genuine 
 ballad, in story, in diction, and in vigour. 
 
 Yet as a whole, and in spite of Mr. Hardy's 
 love of the dance and of dance music, his poetry 
 lacks grace and movement. His war poem. Men 
 Who March Away, is singularly baiting and awk- 
 ward. His complete poetical works are interest- 
 ing because they proceed from an interesting 
 mind. His range of thought, both in reminiscence 
 and in speculation, is immensely wide ; his power 
 of concentration recalls that of Browning. 
 
 I have thought sometimes, and thought long and hard. 
 
 I have stood before, gone round a serious thing, 
 
 Tasked my whole mind to touch and clasp it close, 
 
 As I stretch forth my arm to touch this bar. 
 
 God and man, and what duty I owe both, — 
 
 I dare to say I have confronted these 
 
 In thought: but no such faculty helped here. 
 
 No such faculty alone could help Mr. Hardy to 
 the highest peaks of poetry, any more than it 
 
24 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 served Caponsacclii in his spiritual crisis. He 
 thinks interesting thoughts, because he has an or- 
 iginal mind. It is possible to be a great poet with- 
 out possessing much intellectual wealth ; just as it 
 is possible to be a great singer, and yet be both 
 shallow and dull. The divine gift of poetry seems 
 sometimes as accidental as the formation of the 
 throat. I do not believe that Tennj^son was either 
 shallow or dull ; but I do not think he had so rich 
 a mind as Thomas Hardy's, a mind so quaint, so 
 humorous, so sharp. Yet Tennyson was incom- 
 parably a greater poet. 
 
 The greatest poetry always transports us, and 
 although I read and reread the Wessex poet with 
 never-lagging attention — I find even the drawings 
 in Wessex Poems so fascinating that I wish he 
 had illustrated all his books — I am always con- 
 scious of the time and the place. I never get the 
 unmistakable spinal chill. He has too thorough 
 a command of his thoughts ; they never possess 
 him, and they never soar away with him. Prose 
 may be controlled, but poetry is a possession. Mr. 
 Hardy is too keenly aware of what he is about. 
 In spite of the fact that he has written verse all 
 his life, he seldom writes unwrinkled song. He 
 is, in the last analysis, a master of prose who has 
 learned the technique of verse, and who now 
 chooses to express his thoughts and his observa- 
 tions in rime and rhythm. 
 
 The title of Mr. Hardy's latest volume of poems. 
 Moments of Vision, leads one to expect rifts in 
 
THOMAS HAEDY 25 
 
 the clouds — and one is not disappointed. It is 
 perhaps characteristic of the independence of our 
 author, that steadily preaching pessimism when 
 the world was peaceful, he should now not be per- 
 haps quite so sure of his creed when a larger pro- 
 portion of the world's inhabitants are in pain than 
 ever before. One of the fallacies of pessimism 
 consists in the fact that its advocates often call a 
 witness to the stand whose testimony counts 
 against them. Nobody really loves life, loves this 
 world, like your pessimist; nobody is more re- 
 luctant to leave it. He therefore, to support his 
 argument that life is evil,, calls up evidence which 
 proves that it is brief and transitory. But if 
 life is evil, one of its few redeeming features 
 should be its brevity; the pessimist should look 
 forward to death as a man in prison looks toward 
 the day of his release. Yet this attitude toward 
 death is almost never taken by the atheists or 
 the pessimists, while it is the burden of many 
 of the triumphant hymns of the Christian Church. 
 Now, as our spokesman for pessimism approaches 
 the end — ^which I fervently hope may be afar off 
 — life seems sweet. 
 
 'TOR LIFE I HAD NEVER CAR,ED GREATLY" 
 
 For Life I had never cared greatly, 
 
 As -worth a man's while; 
 
 Peradventures unsought, 
 Peradventures that finished in nought, 
 Had kept me from youth and through manhood till lately 
 
 Unwon by its style. 
 
26 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 In earliest years — why I know not — 
 
 I viewed it askance ; 
 
 Conditions of doubt, 
 Conditions that slowly leaked out, 
 May haply have bent me to stand and to show not 
 
 Much zest for its dance. 
 
 With symphonies soft and sweet colour 
 
 It courted me then. 
 
 Till evasions seemed wrong. 
 Till evasions gave in to its song, 
 And I warmed, till living aloofly loomed duller 
 
 Than life among men. 
 
 Anew I found nought to set eyes on. 
 
 When, lifting its hand, 
 
 It uncloaked a star. 
 Uncloaked it from fog-damps afar. 
 And showed its beams burning from pole to horizon 
 
 As bright as a brand. 
 
 And so, the rough highway forgetting, 
 
 I pace hill and dale, 
 
 Regarding the sky, 
 Eegarding the vision on high, 
 And thus re-illumed have no humour for letting 
 
 My pilgrimage fail. 
 
 No one of course can judge of another's happi- 
 ness ; but it is difficult to imagine any man on 
 earth who has had a happier life than Mr. Hardy. 
 He has had his own genius for company all his 
 days ; he has been successful in literary art be- 
 yond the wildest dreams of his youth; his acute 
 perception has made the beauty of nature a mil- 
 lion times more beautiful to him than to most of 
 the children of men; his eye is not dim, nor his 
 natural force abated. He has that which should 
 
THOMAS HAEDY 27 
 
 ■accompany 0I4 age — ^honour, love, obedience, 
 troops of friends. 
 
 The last poem in Moments of Vision blesses 
 rather than curses life. 
 
 AFTERWARDS 
 
 When the Present has latched its postern behind my tremu- 
 lous stay 
 
 And the May month flaps its glad green leaves like wings, 
 Delicate-filmed as new-spun silk, will the people say 
 
 "He was a man who used to notice such things"? 
 
 If it be in the dusk when, like an eyelid's soundless blink. 
 The dewf all-hawk comes crossing the shades to alight 
 
 Upon the wind-warped upland thorn, will a gazer think, 
 "To him this must have been a familiar sight"? 
 
 If I pass during some nocturnal blackness, mothy and warm. 
 When the hedgehog travels furtively over the lawn, 
 
 WiU they say, "He strove that such innocent creatures should 
 come to no harm, 
 But he could do little for them ; and now he is gone" ? 
 
 If, when hearing that I have been stiUed at last, they stand at 
 the door. 
 
 Watching the full-starred heavens that winter sees. 
 Will this thought rise on those who will meet my face no more, 
 
 "He was one who had an eye for such mysteries"? 
 
 And will any say when my bell of quittance is heard in the 
 gloom, 
 
 And a crossing breeze cuts a pause in its outrollings. 
 Till they rise again, as they were a new bell's boom, 
 
 "He hears it not now, but he used to notice such things" ? 
 
 Should Mr. Hardy ever resort to prayer — ^which 
 I suppose is unlikely — his prayers ought to be 
 the best in the world. According to Coleridge, he 
 
28 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 prayeth well who loveth well both man and bird 
 and beast ; a beautiful characteristic of our great 
 writer is his tenderness for every living thing. 
 He will be missed by men, women, children, and 
 by the humblest animals; and if trees have any 
 self-consciousness, they will miss him too. 
 
 Rudyard Kipling is a Victorian poet, as Thomas 
 Hardy is a Victorian novelist. When Tennyson 
 died in 1892, the world, with approximate una- 
 nimity, chose the young man from the East as his 
 successor, and for twenty-five years he has been 
 the Laureate of the British Empire in everything 
 but the title. In the eighteenth century, when 
 Gray regarded the offer of the Laureateship as an 
 insult, Mr. Alfred Austin might properly have 
 been appointed; but after the fame of Southey, 
 and the mighty genius of Wordsworth and of 
 Tennyson, it was cruel to put Alfred the Little in 
 the chair of Alfred the Great. It was not an in- 
 sult to Austin, but an insult to Poetry. With the 
 elevation of the learned and amiable Dr. Bridges 
 in 1913, the public ceased to care who holds the 
 office. This eminently respectable appointment 
 silenced both opposition and applause. We can 
 only echo the language of Gray's letter to Mason, 
 19 December, 1757: "I interest myself a little 
 in the history of it, and rather wish somebody 
 may accept it that will retrieve the credit of the 
 thing, if it be retrievable, or ever had any credit. 
 . . . The office itself has always humbled the pro- 
 fessor hitherto (even in an age when kings were 
 
EUDYARD KIPLINa 29 
 
 somebody), if he were a poor writer by making 
 him. more conspicuous, and if he were a good one 
 by setting him at war with the little fry of his 
 own profession, for there are poets little enough 
 to envy even a poet-laureat. " Mason was will- 
 ing. 
 
 Eudyard Kipling had the double qualification ; 
 of poetic genius and of convinced Imperialism. ' 
 He had received a formal accolade from the aged 
 Tennyson, and could have carried on the tradi- 
 tion of British verse and British arms. Nor has ' 
 any Laureate, in the history of the office, risen 
 more magnificently to an occasion than did Mr. 
 Kipling at the sixtieth anniversary of the reign 
 of the Queen. Each poet made his little speech in 
 verse, and then at the close of the ceremony, came 
 the thrilling Recessional, which received as in- 
 stant applause from the world as if it had been 
 spoken to an audience. In its scriptural phrase- 
 ology, in its combination of haughty pride and 
 deep contrition, in its "holy hope and high humil- 
 ity," it expressed with austere majesty the genius 
 of the English race. The soul of a great poet en- 
 tered immediately into the hearts of men, there to 
 abide for ever. 
 
 It is interesting to reflect that not the author 
 of the Recessional, but the author of Regina Cara 
 was duly chosen for the Laureateship. This poem 
 by Robert Bridges appeared on the same occa- 
 sion as that immortalized by Kipling, and was 
 subsequently included in the volume of the writ- 
 
30 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 er's poetical works, published in 1912. It shows 
 irreproachable reverence for Queen Victoria. 
 Apparently its poetical quality was satisfactory 
 to those who appoint Laureates. 
 
 REGINA CARA 
 
 Jubilee-Song, for music, 1897 
 
 Hark ! the world is full of thy praise, 
 England's Queen of many days ; 
 Who, knowing how to rule the free, 
 Hast given a crown to monarchy. 
 
 Honour, Truth, and growing Peace 
 Follow Britannia's wide increase, 
 And Nature yield her strength unknown 
 To the wisdom bom beneath thy throne! 
 
 In wisdom and love firm is thy fame : 
 Enemies bow to revere thy name : 
 The world shall never tire to tell 
 Praise of the queen that reigned well. 
 
 O Felix anima, Domina praeclara, 
 Amore semper coronabere 
 Eegina Cara. 
 
 Eudyard Kipling's poetry is as familiar to us 
 as the air we breathe. He is the spokesman for 
 the Anglo-Saxon breed. His gospel of orderly 
 energy is the inspiration of thousands of business 
 ofBces; his sententious maxims are parts of cur- 
 rent speech: the viotrola has carried his singing 
 lyrics even farther than the banjo penetrates, of 
 which latter democratic instrument his wonderful 
 poem is the apotheosis. And we have the word of 
 
EUDYARD KIPLINa 31 
 
 a distinguished British major-general to prove 
 that Mr. Kipling has wrought a miracle of trans- 
 formation with Tommy Atkins. General Sir 
 ■George Younghusband, in a recent book, A Sol- 
 dier's Memories, says, "I had never heard the 
 words or expressions that Budyard Kipling's sol- 
 diers used. Many a time did I ask my brother 
 officers whether they had ever heard them. No, 
 never. But, sure enough, a few years after the 
 soldiers thought, and talked, and expressed them- 
 selves exactly as Rudyard Kipling had taught 
 them in his stories. Rudyard Kipling made the 
 modem soldier. Other writers have gone on with 
 the good work, and they have between them manu- 
 factured the cheery, devil-may-care, lovable per- 
 son enshrined in our hearts as Thomas Atkins. 
 Before he had learned from reading stories about 
 himself that he, as an individual, also possessed 
 the above attributes, he was mostly ignorant of 
 the fact. My early recollections of the British 
 soldier are of a bluff, rather surly person, never 
 the least jocose or light-hearted except perhaps 
 when he had too much beer." 
 
 This is extraordinary testimony to the power 
 of literature — from a first-class fighting man. It 
 is as though John Sargent should paint an inac- 
 curate but idealized portrait, and the original 
 should make it accurate by imitation. The sol- 
 diers were transformed by the renewing of their 
 minds. Beholding with open face as in a glass a 
 certain image, they were changed into the same 
 
32 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 image, by the spirit of the poet. This is certainly 
 a greater achievement than correct reporting. It 
 is quite possible, too, that the officers' attitude 
 toward Tonmay Atkins had been altered by the 
 Barrack-Room Ballads, and this new attitude pro- 
 duced results in character. 
 
 I give General Younghusband 's testimony for 
 what it is worth. It is important if true. But it 
 is only fair to add that it has been contradicted 
 by another military officer, who affirms that Kip- 
 ling reported the soldier as he was. Readers may 
 take their choice. At all events the transforma- 
 tion of character by discipline, cleanliness, hard 
 work, and danger is the ever-present moral in 
 Mr. Kipling's verse. He loves to take the raw 
 recruit or the boyish, self-conscious, awkward 
 subaltern, and show how he may become an effi- 
 cient man, happy in the happiness that accom- 
 panies success. It is a Philistine goal, but one 
 that has the advantage of being attainable. The 
 reach of this particular poet seldom exceeds his 
 grasp. And although thus far in his career — he 
 is only fifty-two, and we may hope as well as re- 
 member — ^his best poetry belongs to the nine- 
 teenth century rather than the twentieth, so uni- 
 versally popular a homily as 7/ indicates that he 
 has by no means lost the power of preaching in 
 verse. With the exception of some sad lapses, his 
 latter poems have come nearer the earlier level of 
 production than his stories. For that matter, 
 from the beginning I have thought that the genius 
 
EUDYAED KIPLING 33 
 
 of Rudyard Kipling had more authentic expres- 
 sion in poetry than in prose. I therefore hope 
 that after the war he will become one of the 
 leaders in the advance of English poetry in the 
 twentieth century, as he will remain one of the 
 imperishable monuments of Victorian literature. 
 The verse published in his latest volume of stories, 
 A Diversity of Creatures, 1917, has the stamp of 
 his original mind, and Macdonough's Song is im- 
 pressive. And in a poem which does not appear 
 in this collection, but which was written at the 
 outbreak of hostilities, Mr. KipHng was, I be- 
 lieve, the first to use the name Hun — ^an appella- 
 tion of considerable adhesive power. Do roses 
 stick like burrs? 
 
 His influence on other poets has of course been 
 powerful. As Eden Phillpotts is to Thomas 
 Hardy, so is Robert Service to Rudyard Kip- 
 ling. Like Bret Harte in California, Mr. ■ Service 
 found gold in the Klondike. But it is not merely 
 in his interpretation of the life of a distant coun- 
 try that the new poet reminds one of his proto- 
 type ; both in matter and in manner he may justly 
 be called the Kipling of the North. His verse 
 has an extraordinary popularity among Ameri- 
 can college undergraduates, the reasons for which 
 are evident. They read, discuss him, and quote 
 him with joy, and he might well be proud of the 
 adoration of so many of our eager, adventurous, 
 high-hearted youth. Yet, while Mr. Service is un- 
 doubtedly a real poet, his work as a whole seems 
 
34 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 a clear echo,, rather than a new song. It is good, 
 but it is reminiscent of his reading, not merely 
 of Mr. Kipling, but of poetry in general. In The 
 Land God Forgot, a fine poem, beginning 
 
 The lonely sunsets flare forlorn 
 
 Down valleys dreadly desolate; 
 
 The lordly mountains soar in scorn 
 
 As still as death, as stem as fate, 
 
 the opening line infallibly brings to mind Hen- 
 ley's 
 
 Where forlorn sunsets flare and fade. 
 
 The poetry of Mr. Service has the merits and 
 the faults of the "red blood" school in fiction, il- 
 lustrated by the late Jack London and the lively 
 Eex Beach. It is not the highest form of art. It 
 insists on being heard, but it smells of mortality. 
 You cannot give permanence to a book by print- 
 ing it in italic type. 
 
 It is indeed difficult to express in pure artistic 
 form great primitive experiences, even with long 
 years of intimate first-hand knowledge. No one 
 doubts Mr. Service's accuracy or sincerity. But 
 many men have had abundance of material, rich 
 and new, only to find it unmanageable. Bret 
 Harte, Mark Twain, Eudyard Kipling succeeded 
 where thousands have failed. Think of the possi- 
 bilities of Australia! And from that vast region 
 only one great artist has spoken — Percy Grainger. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 PHILJJPS, WATSON, NOYBS, HOUSMAN 
 
 Stephen Phillips — his immediate success — ^influence of Strat- 
 ford-on-Avon — his plays — a traditional poet — his realism — 
 William Watson — his unpromising start — his lament on the 
 coldness of the age toward poetry — his Epigrams — Words- 
 worth's Grave — his eminence as a critic in verse — ^his anti- 
 imperialism — his Song of Hate — his Byronic wit — ^his con- 
 tempt for the "new" poetry — Alfred Noyes— both literary and 
 rhetorical — an orthodox poet — a singer — his democracy — ^his 
 childlike imagination — his sea-poems — Brake — his optimism — 
 his religious faith — A. E. Housman — his paganism and pes- 
 simism — his modernity — his originality — ^his lyrical power — 
 war poems — Ludlow. 
 
 The genius of Stephen Phillips was immediately 
 recognized by London critics. When the thin 
 volume, Poems, containing Marpessa, Christ in 
 Hades, and some lyrical pieces, appeared in 1897, 
 it was greeted by a loud chorus of approval, cere- 
 moniously ratified by the bestowal of the First 
 Prize from the British Academy. Some of the 
 more distinguished among his admirers asserted 
 that the nobility, splendour, and beauty of his 
 verse merited the adjective Miltonic. I remember 
 that we Americans thought that the English critics 
 had lost their heads, and we queried what they 
 would say if we praised a new poet in the United 
 States in any such fashion. But that was before 
 we had seen the book; when we had once read 
 
 35 
 
36 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 it for ourselves, we felt no alarm for the safety of 
 Milton, but we knew that English Literature had 
 been enriched. Stephen Phillips is among the 
 English poets. 
 
 His career extended over the space of twenty- 
 five years, from the first publication of Marpessa 
 in 1890 to his death on the ninth of December, 
 1915. He was born near the city of Oxford, on the 
 twenty-eighth of July, 1868. His father, the Rev. 
 Dr. Stephen Phillips, still living, is Precentor of 
 Peterborough Cathedral; his mother was related 
 to Wordsworth. He was exposed to poetry germs 
 at the age of eight, for in 1876 his father became 
 Chaplain and Sub-Vicar at Stratford-on-Avon, 
 and the boy attended the Grammar School. Later 
 he spent a year at Queens' College, Cambridge, 
 enough to give him the right to be enrolled in the 
 long list of Cambridge poets. He went on the 
 stage as a member of Frank Benson's company, 
 and in his time played many parts, receiving on 
 one occasion a curtain call as the Ghost in Hamlet. 
 This experience — with the early Stratford inspira- 
 tion — probably fired his ambition to become a 
 dramatist. The late Sir George Alexander pro- 
 duced Paolo and Francesca; Herod was acted in 
 London by Beerbohm Tree, and in America by 
 William Faversham. Neither of these plays was 
 a failure, but it is regrettable that he wrote for 
 the stage at all. His genius was not adapted for 
 drama, and the quality of his verse was not im- 
 proved by the experiment, although all of his half- 
 
STEPHEN PHILLIPS 37 
 
 dozen pieces have occasional passages of rare love- 
 liness. His best play, Paolo and Francesca, suf- 
 fers when compared either with Boker's or D'An- 
 nunzio's treatment of the old story. It lacks the 
 stage-craft of the former, and the virility of the 
 latter. 
 
 Phillips was no pioneer: he followed the great 
 tradition of English poetry, and must be counted 
 among the legitimate heirs. At his best, he re- 
 sembles Keats most of all; and none but a real 
 poet could ever make us think of Keats. If he 
 be condemned for not breaking new paths, we 
 may remember the words of a wise man — "It is 
 easier to differ from the great poets than it is to 
 resemble them." He loved to employ the stand- 
 ard five-foot measure that has done so much of 
 the best work of English poetry. In The Woman 
 with the Dead Soul, he showed once more the 
 musical possibilities latent in the heroic couplet, 
 which Pope had used with such monotonous bril- 
 liance. In Marpessa, he gave us blank verse of 
 noble artistry. But he was far more than a mere 
 technician. He fairly meets the test set by John 
 Davidson. ' ' In the poet the whole assembly of his 
 being is harmonious ; no organ is master; a diapa- 
 son extends throughout the entire scale ; his whole 
 body, his whole soul is rapt into the making of 
 his poetry. . . . Poetry is the product of original- 
 ity, of a first-hand experience and observation of 
 life, of a direct communion with men and women, 
 with the seasons of the year, with day and night. 
 
38 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 The critic will therefore be well-advised, if he 
 have the good fortune to find something that seems 
 to him poetry, to lay it out in the dayUght and the 
 moonlight, to take it into the street and the fields, 
 to set against it his own experience and observa- 
 tion of life." 
 
 One of the most severe tests of poetry that I 
 know of is to read it aloud on the shore of an 
 angry sea. Homer, Shakespeare, Milton gain in 
 splendour with this accompaniment. 
 
 With the words of John Davidson in mind, let 
 us take two passages from Marpessa, and measure 
 one against the atmosphere of day and night, and 
 the other against homely human experience. Al- 
 though Mr. Davidson was not thinking of Phillips, 
 I believe he would have admitted the validity of 
 this verse. 
 
 From the dark 
 The floating smell of flowers invisible, 
 The mystic yearning of the garden wet, 
 The moonless-passing night — into his brain 
 Wandered, until he rose and outward leaned 
 In the dim summer; 'twas the moment deep 
 When we are conscious of the secret dawn, 
 Amid the darkness that we feel is green. . . . 
 When the long day that glideth without cloud. 
 The summer day, was at her deep blue hour 
 Of lilies musical with busy bliss. 
 Whose very light trembled as with excess, 
 And heat was frail, and every bush and flower 
 Was drooping in the glory overcome ; 
 
 Any poet knows how to speak in authentic tones 
 of the wild passion of insurgent hearts; but not 
 
STEPHEN PHILLIPS 39 
 
 every poet possesses the rarer gift of setting the 
 mellower years to harmonious music, as in the 
 following gracious words : 
 
 But if I live with Idas, then we two 
 
 On the low earth shall prosper hand in hand 
 
 In odours of the open field, and live 
 
 In peaceful noises of the farm, and watch 
 
 The pastoral fields burned by the setting sun. . . . 
 
 And though the first sweet sting of love be past, 
 
 The sweet that almost venom is; though youth. 
 
 With tender and extravagant delight, 
 
 The first and secret kiss by twilight hedge. 
 
 The insane farewell repeated o'er and o'er. 
 
 Pass o£E; there shall succeed a faithful peace; 
 
 Beautiful friendship tried by sun and wind, 
 
 Durable from the daily dust of life. 
 
 And though with sadder, still with kinder eyes, 
 
 We shall behold all frailties, we shall haste 
 
 To pardon, and with mellowing minds to bless. 
 
 Then though we must groT^' old, we shall grow old 
 
 Together, and he shall not greatly miss 
 
 My bloom faded, and Waning light of eyes. 
 
 Too deeply gazed in ever to seem dim; 
 
 Nor shall W€ murmur at, nor much regret 
 
 The years that gently bend us to the ground. 
 
 And gradually incline our face; that we 
 
 Leisurely stooping, and with each slow step. 
 
 May curiously inspect our lasting home. 
 
 But we shall sit. with luminous holy smiles, 
 
 Endeared by many griefs, by many a jest. 
 
 And custom siyeet of living side by side; 
 
 And full of memories not unkindly glance 
 
 Upon each other. Last, we shall descend 
 
 Into the natural ground — not without tears — 
 
 One must go first, ah God ! one must go first ; 
 
 After so long one blow for both were good ; 
 
 Still like old friends, glad to have met, and leave 
 
 Behind a wholesome memory on the earth. 
 
40 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 Although Marpessa and Christ in Hades are 
 subjects naturally adapted for poetic treatment, 
 Phillips did not hesitate to try his art on material 
 less malleable. In some of his poems we find a 
 realism as honest and clear-sighted as that of 
 Crabbe or Masefield. In The Woman with the 
 Dead Soul and The Wife we have naturalism ele- 
 vated into poetry. He could make a London night 
 as mystical as a moonlit meadow. And in a brief 
 couplet he has given to one of the most familiar 
 of metropolitan spectacles a pretty touch' of im- 
 agination. The traffic policeman becomes a musi- 
 cian. 
 
 The constable with lifted hand 
 Conducting the orchestral Strand. 
 
 Stephen Phillips's second volume of collected 
 verse, New Poems (1907), came ten years after 
 the first, and was to me an agreeable surprise. 
 His devotion to the drama made me fear that he 
 had burned himself out in the Poems of 1897 ; but 
 the later book is as unmistakably the work of a 
 poet as was the earlier. The mystical communion 
 with nature is expressed with authority in such 
 poems as After Rain, Thoughts at Sunrise, 
 Thoughts at Noon. Indeed the first-named dis- 
 tinctly harks back to that transcendental mystic 
 of the seventeenth century, Henry Vaughan. The 
 greatest triumph in the whole volume comes where 
 we should least expect it, in the eulogy on Glad- 
 stone. Even the most sure-footed bards often 
 miss their path in the Dark Valley. Yet in these 
 
PHILLIPS, WATSON 41 
 
 seven stanzas on the Old Parliamentary Hand 
 there is not a single weak line,, not a single false 
 note ; word placed on word grows steadily into a 
 colunm of majestic beauty. 
 
 This poem is all the more refreshing because 
 admiration for Gladstone had become unfashion- 
 able ; his work was belittled, his motives befouled, 
 his clear mentality discounted by thousands of 
 pygmy politicians and journalistic gnats. The 
 poet, with a poet's love for mountains, turns the 
 powerful light of his genius on the old giant; the 
 mists disappear ; and we see again a form vener- 
 able and august. 
 
 The saint and poet dwell apart ; but thou 
 Wast holy in the furious press of men, 
 And choral in the central rush of life. 
 Yet didst thou love old branches and a book, 
 And Roman verses on an English lawn. . . . 
 
 Yet not for all thy breathing charm remote, 
 
 Nor breach tremendous in the forts of Hell, 
 
 Not for these things we praise thee, though these things 
 
 Are much ; but more, because thou didst discern 
 
 In. temporal policy the eternal will; 
 
 Thou gav'st to party strife the epic note, 
 And to debate the thunder of the Lord ; 
 To meanest issues fire of the Most High. 
 
 William Watson, a Torkshireman by birth and 
 ancestry, was born on the second of August, 1858. 
 His first volume. The Prince's Quest, appeared in 
 1880. Seldom has a true poet made a more un- 
 promising start, or given so little indication, not 
 
42 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 only of the flame of genius, but of the power of 
 thought. No twentieth century English poet has 
 a stronger personality than William Watson. 
 There is not the slightest tang of it in The Prince's 
 Quest. This long, rambling romance, in ten sec- 
 tions, is as devoid of flavour as a five-finger ex- 
 ercise. It is more than objective; it is somnam- 
 bulistic. It contains hardly any notable lines, and 
 hardly any bad lines. Although quite dull, it 
 never deviates into prose — it is always somehow 
 poetical without ever becoming poetry. It is writ- 
 ten in the heroic couplet, written with a fatal 
 fluency; not good enough and not bad enough to 
 be interesting. It is like the student's theme, 
 which was returned to him without corrections, yet 
 with a low mark ; and in reply to the student 's re- 
 sentful question, "Why did you not correct my 
 faults, if you thought meanly of my workl" the 
 teacher replied wearily, "Your theme has no 
 faults ; it is distinguished by a lack of merit. " 
 
 In The Prince's Quest Mr. Watson exhibited a 
 rather remarkable command of a barren technique. 
 He had neither thoughts that breathe, nor words 
 that bum. He had one or two unusual words — 
 his only indication of immaturity in style — like 
 "wox" and "himseemed. " (Why is it that 
 when "herseemed" as used by Rossetti, is so beau- 
 tiful, "himseemed" should be so irritating?) But 
 aside from a few specimens, the poem is as free 
 from affectations as it is from passion. When 
 we remember the faults and the splendours of 
 
WILLIAM WATSON 43 
 
 Pauline, it seems incredible that a young poet 
 could write so many pages without stumbling and 
 without soaring ; that he could produce a finished 
 work of mediocrity. I suppose that those who 
 read the poem in 1880 felt quite sure that its 
 author would never scale the heights; and they 
 were wrong; because William Watson really has 
 the divine gift, and is one of the most deservedly 
 eminent among living poets. 
 
 It is only fair to add, that in the edition of his 
 works in 1898, The Prince's Quest did not appear; 
 he was persuaded, however, to include it in the 
 two-volume edition of 1905, where it enjoys con- 
 siderable revision, "wox" becoming normal, and 
 "himseemed" becoming dissyllabic. For my 
 part, I am glad that it has now been definitely 
 retained. It is important in the study of a poet's 
 development. It would seem that the William 
 Watson of the last twenty-five years, a fiery, eager, 
 sensitive man, with a burning passion to express 
 himself on moral and political ideas, learned the 
 mastery of his art before he bad anything to say. 
 
 Perhaps, being a thoroughly honest craftsman, 
 he felt that he ought to keep his thoughts to him- 
 self, until he knew how to express them. After 
 proving it on an impersonal romance, he was then 
 ready to speak his mind. No poet has spoken 
 his mind more plainly. 
 
 In an interesting address, delivered in various 
 cities in the United States, and published in 1913, 
 called The Poet's Place in the Scheme of Life, 
 
44 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 Mr. Watson said, "Since my arrival on these 
 shores I have been told that here also the public 
 interest in poetry is visibly on the wane. ' ' Now 
 whoever told him that was mistaken. The public 
 interest in poetry and in poets has visibly wox, 
 to use Mr. Watson's word. It is always true that 
 an original genius, like Browning, like Ibsen, like 
 Wagner, must wait some time for public recog- 
 nition, although these three all lived long enough 
 to receive not only appreciation, but idolatry; but 
 the "reading public" has no difficulty in recogniz- 
 ing immediately first-rate work, when it is pro- 
 duced in the familiar forms of art. In the Preface 
 that preceded his printed lecture, Mr. Watson com- 
 plained with some natural resentment, though with 
 no petulance, that his poem, King Alfred, starred 
 as it was from the old armories of literature, re- 
 ceived scarcely any critical comment, and attracted 
 no attention. But the reason is plain enough — 
 King Alfred, as a whole, is a dull poem, and is 
 therefore not provocative of eager discussion. 
 The critics and the public rose in reverence be- 
 fore Wordsworth's Grave, because it is a noble 
 work of art. Its author did not have to tell us of 
 its beauty — it was as clear as a cathedral. 
 
 I do not agree with Mr. Watson or with Mr. 
 Mackaye, that real poets are speaking to deaf ears, 
 or that they should be stimulated by forced at- 
 tention. I once heard Percy Mackaye make an 
 eloquent and high-minded address, where, if my 
 memory serves me rightly, he advocated some- 
 
WILLIAM WATSON 45 
 
 thing like a stipend for young poets. A distin- 
 guished old man in the audience, now with God, 
 whispered audibly, "What most of them need is 
 hanging!" I do not think they should be re- 
 warded either by cash or the gallows. Let them 
 make their way, and if they have genius, the 
 public wiU find it out. If all they have is talent, 
 and no means to support it, poetry had better 
 become their avocation. 
 
 Mr. Watson has expressly disclaimed that in 
 his lecture he was lamenting merely "the insuffi- 
 cient praise bestowed upon living poets." It is 
 certainly true that most poets cannot live by the 
 sale of their works. Is this especially the fault 
 of our age? is it the fault of our poets? is it a 
 fault in human nature? Mr. Watson said, "Yet 
 I am bound to admit that this need for the poet is 
 felt by but few persons in our day. With one ex- 
 ception there is not a single living English poet, 
 the sales of whose poems would not have been 
 thought contemptible by Scott and Byron. The 
 exception is, of course, that apostle of British im- 
 perialism — that vehement and voluble glorifier of 
 Britannic ideals, whom I dare say you will read- 
 ily identify from my brief, and, I hope, not dis- 
 paraging description of him. With that one bril- 
 liant and salient exception, England's living sing- 
 ers succeed in reaching only a pitifully small audi- 
 ence. ' ' In commenting on this passage, we ought 
 to remember that Scott and Byron were colossal 
 figures, so big that no eye could miss them; and 
 
46 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 that the reason why Kipling has enjoyed sub- 
 stantial rewards is not because of his political 
 views, nor because of his glorification of the Brit- 
 ish Empire, but simply because of his literary 
 genius. He is a brilliant and salient exception to 
 the common run of poets, not merely in royalties, 
 but in creative power. Furthermore, shortly 
 after this lecture was delivered, Alfred Noyes and 
 then John Masefield passed from city to city in 
 America in a march of triumph. Mr. Gribson and 
 Mr. De La Mare received homage everywhere; 
 "Riley day" is now a legal holiday in Indiana; 
 Rupert Brooke has been canonized. 
 
 Mr. Watson is surely mistaken when he offers 
 "his poetical contemporaries in England" his 
 "most sincere condolences on the hard fate which 
 condemned them to be born there at all in the lat- 
 ter part of the nineteenth century." But he is 
 not mistaken in wishing that more people every- 
 where were appreciative of true poetry. I wish 
 this with all my heart, not so much for the poet's 
 sake, as for that of the people. But the chosen 
 spirits are not rarer in our time than formerly. 
 The fault is ia human nature. Material blessings 
 are instantly appreciated by every man, woman, 
 and child, and by all the animals. For one person 
 who knows the joys of listening to music, or look- 
 ing at pictures, or reading poetry, there are a 
 hundred thousand who know only the joys of food, 
 clothing, shelter. Spiritual delights are not so 
 immediately apparent as the gratification of phys- 
 
WILLIAM WATSON 47 
 
 ical desires. Perhaps if they were, man's growth 
 would stop. As Browning says, 
 
 While were it so with the soul, — this gift of truth 
 Once grasped, were this our soul's gain safe, and sure 
 To prosper as the body's gain is wont, — 
 Why, man's probation would conclude, his earth 
 Crumble; for he both reasons and decides. 
 Weighs first, then chooses : will he give up fire 
 For gold or purple once he knows its worth? 
 Could he give Christ up were his worth as plain? 
 Therefore, I say, to test man, the proofs shift. 
 Nor may he grasp that fact like other fact, 
 And straightway in his Hf e acknowledge it. 
 As, say, the indubitable bliss of fire. 
 
 One of the functions of the poet is to awaken 
 men and women to the knowledge of the delights 
 of the mind, to give them life instead of exist-i 
 ence. As Mr. Watson nobly expresses it, the aim 
 of the poet "is to keep fresh within us our often 
 flagging sense of life's greatness and grandeur." 
 We can exist on food; but we cannot live without 
 our poets, who lift us to higher planes of thought 
 and feeling. The poetry of William Watson has 
 done this service for us again and again. 
 
 In 1884 appeared Epigrams of Art, Life, and 
 Nature. I do not think these have been suffi- 
 ciently admired. As an epigrammatist Mr. Wat- 
 son has no rival in Victorian or in contemporary 
 verse. The epigram is a quite definite form of 
 art, especially cultivated by the poets in the first 
 half of the seventeenth century. Their formula 
 was the terse expression of obscene thoughts. 
 
48 ADVANCE OF ENaLISH POETEY 
 
 Mr. Watson excels the best of them in wit, con- 
 cision, and grace ; it is needless to say he makes 
 no attempt to rival them as a garbage-collector. 
 Of the large number of epigrams that he has con- 
 tributed to English literature, I find the majority 
 not only interesting, but richly stimulating. This 
 one ought to please Mr. H. G. Wells: 
 
 When whelmed are altar, priest, and creed; 
 
 When all the faiths have passed; 
 Perhaps, from darkening incense freed, 
 
 God may emerge at last. 
 
 This one, despite its subject, is far above dog- 
 gerel : 
 
 His friends he loved. His direst earthly foes — 
 Cats — I believe he did but feign to hate. 
 
 My hand will miss the insinuated nose, 
 
 Mine eyes the tail that wagg'd contempt at fate. 
 
 But his best epigrams are on purely literary 
 themes : 
 
 Your Marlowe's page I close, my Shakespeare's ope. 
 
 How welcome — after gong and cymbal's din — 
 The continuity, the long slow slope 
 
 And vast curves of the gradual violin! j 
 
 With the publication in 1890 of his masterpiece, 
 Wordsworth's Grave, William Watson came into 
 his own. This is worthy of the man it honours, 
 and what higher praise could be given? It is 
 superior, both in penetration and in beauty, to 
 Matthew Arnold's famous Memorial Verses. In- 
 deed, in the art of writing subtle literary criticism 
 
WILLIAM WATSON 49 
 
 in rhythmical language that is itself high and pure 
 poetry, Mr. Watson is unapproachable by any of 
 his contemporaries, and I do not know of any 
 poet in English literature who has surpassed him. 
 This is his specialty, this is his clearest title to 
 permanent fame. And although his criticism is 
 so valuable, when employed on a sympathetic 
 theme, that he must be ranked among our modern 
 interpreters of literature, his style in expressing 
 it could not possibly be translated into prose, sure 
 test of its poetical greatness. In his Apologia, he 
 says 
 
 I have full oft 
 In singers' selves found me a theme of song, 
 Holding these also to be very part 
 Of Nature's greatness, and accounting not 
 Their descants least heroical of deeds. 
 
 The poem Wordsworth's Grave not only ex- 
 presses, as no one else has expressed, the quality 
 of Wordsworth's genius, but in single lines as- 
 signed to each, the same service is done for Milton, 
 Shakespeare, Shelley, Coleridge, and Byron. 
 This is a matchless illustration of the kind of 
 criticism that is in itself genius; for we may 
 quarrel with Mr. Spingam as much as we please 
 on his general dogmatic principle of the identity 
 of genius and taste; here we have so admirable 
 an example of what he means by creative criticism, 
 that it is a pity he did not think of it himself. 
 "For it still remains true," says Mr.^ Spingam, 
 "that the assthetic critic, in his moments of high- 
 
50 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 est power, rises to heights where he is at one with 
 the creator whom he is interpreting. At that mo- 
 ment criticism and ' creation ' are one. ' ' 
 
 All great poets have the power of noble indigna- 
 tion, a divine wrath against wickedness in high 
 places. The poets, like the prophets of old, pour 
 out their irrepressible fury against what they be- 
 lieve to be cruelty and oppression. Milton's mag- 
 nificent Piedmont sonnet is a glorious roar of 
 righteous rage ; and since his time the poets have 
 ever been the spokesmen for the insulted and in- 
 jured. Eobert Bums, more than most statesmen, 
 helped to make the world safe for democracy. I 
 do not know what humanity would do without its 
 poets — they are the champions of the individual 
 against the tyranny of power, the cruel selfish- 
 ness of kings, and the artificial conventions of 
 society. We may or may not agree with Mr. Wat- 
 son's anti-imperialistic sentiments as expressed 
 in the early days of our century ; he himself, like 
 most of us, has changed his mind on many sub- 
 jects since the outbreak of the world-war, and 
 unless he ceases to develop, will probably change 
 it many times in the future. But whatever our 
 opinions, we cannot help admiring lines like these, 
 published in 1897 : 
 
 HOW WEARY IS OUR HEART 
 
 Of kings and courts; of kingly, courtly ways 
 In ■which the life of man is bought and sold; 
 How weary is our heart these many days ! 
 
WILLIAM WATSON 51 
 
 Of ceremonious embassies that hold 
 Parley with Hell in fine and silken phrase, 
 How weary is our heart these many days ! 
 
 Of wavering counsellors neither hot nor cold, 
 Whom from His mouth God speweth, be it told 
 How weary is our heart these many days! 
 
 Yea, for the ravelled night is round the lands, 
 
 And sick are we of all the imperial story. 
 
 The tramp of Power, and its long trail of pain; 
 
 The mighty brows in meanest arts grown hoary; 
 
 The mighty hands. 
 
 That in the dear, affronted name of Peace 
 
 Bind down a people to be racked and slain; 
 
 The emulous armies waxing without cease, 
 
 AU-puissant all in vain; 
 
 The pacts and leagues to murder by delays. 
 
 And the dumb throngs that on the deaf thrones gaze; 
 
 The common loveless lust of territory; 
 
 The lips that only babble of their mart, 
 
 While to the night the shrieking hamlets blaze; 
 
 The bought allegiance, and the purchased praise. 
 
 False honour, and shameful glory; — 
 
 Of all the evil whereof this is part, 
 
 How weary is our heart. 
 
 How weary is our heart these many days! 
 
 Anotlier poem I cite in full, not for its power 
 and beauty, but as a curiosity. I do not tMnk it 
 has been remembered that in the New Poems of 
 1909 Mr. Watson published a poem of Hate some 
 years before the Teutonic hymn became famous. 
 It is worth reading again, because it so exactly 
 expresses the cold reserve of the Anglo-Saxon, in 
 contrast with the sentimentality of the German. 
 There is, of course, no indication that its author 
 had Germany in mind. 
 
52 ADyANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 HATE 
 
 (To certain foreign detractors) 
 
 Sirs, if the truth must needs be told, 
 We love not you that rail and scold; 
 And, yet, my masters, you may wait 
 Till the Greek Calends for our hate. 
 
 No spendthrifts of our hate are we ; 
 Our hate is used with husbandry. 
 We hold our hate too choice a thing 
 For light and careless lavishing. 
 
 We cannot, dare not, make it cheap ! 
 For holy uses will we keep 
 A thing so pure, a thing so great 
 As Heaven's benignant gift of hate. 
 
 Is there no ancient, sceptred Wrong? 
 No torturing Power, endured too long 1 
 Yea; and for these our hatred shall 
 Be cloistered and kept virginal. 
 
 He found occasion to draw from his cold storage 
 of hate much sooner than he had anticipated. Be- 
 ing a convinced anti-imperialist, and having not 
 a spark of antagonism to Germany, the early days 
 of August, 1914, shocked no one in the world more 
 than him. But after the first maze of bewilder- 
 ment and horror, he drew his pen against the 
 Kaiser in holy wrath. Most of his war poems 
 have been collected in the little volume The Man 
 Who Saw, published in the summer of 1917. He 
 has now at all events one satisfaction, that of being 
 in absolute harmony with the national sentiment. 
 In his Preface, after commenting on the pain he 
 
WILLIAM WATSON 53 
 
 had suffered in times past at finding himself in 
 opposition to the majority of his countrymen, he 
 manfully says, "During the present war, with all 
 its agonies and horrors, he has had at any rate 
 the one private satisfaction of feeling not even 
 the most momentary doubt or misgiving as to 
 the perfect righteousness of his country's cause. 
 There is nothing on earth of which he is more cer- 
 tain than that this Empire, throughout this su- 
 preme ordeal, has shaped her course by the light 
 of purest duty." The volume opens with a fine 
 tribute to Mr. Lloyd G-eorge, "the man who 
 saw," and The Kaiser's Dirge is a savage male- 
 diction. The poems in this book — of decidedly 
 unequal merit — have the fire of indignation if not 
 always the flame of inspiration. Taken as a 
 whole, they are more interesting psychologically 
 than as a contribution to English verse. I sym- 
 pathize with the author's feelings, and admire his 
 sincerity; but his reputation as a poet is not 
 heightened overmuch. Perhaps the best poem in 
 the collection is The Yellow Pansy, accompanied 
 with Shakespeare's line, "There's pansies — that's 
 for thoughts. ' ' 
 
 Winter had swooped, a lean and hungry hawk; 
 
 It seemed an age since summer Was entombed; 
 Yet in our garden, on its frozen stalk, 
 
 A yellow pansy bloomed. 
 
 'Twas Nature saying by trope and metaphor: 
 "Behold, when empire against empire strives, 
 
 Though all else perish, ground 'neath iron war, 
 The golden thought survives." 
 
54 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 Although, with the exception of his marriage 
 and travels in America, Mr. Watson's verse tells 
 us little of the facts of his life, few poets have 
 ever revealed more of the history of their mind. 
 What manner of man he is we know without wait- 
 ing for the publication of his intimate correspond- 
 ence. It is fortunate for his temperament that, 
 combined with an almost morbid sensitiveness, he 
 has something of Byron's power of hitting back. 
 His numerous volumes contain many verses scor- 
 ing off adverse critics, upon whom he exercises a 
 sword of satire not always to be found among a 
 poet's weapons; which exercise seems to give 
 him both relief and delight. Apart from these 
 thrusts edged with personal bitterness, William 
 Watson possesses a rarely used vein of ironical 
 wit that imcmediately recalls Byron, who might 
 himself have written some of the stanzas in The 
 Eloping Angels. Faust requests Mephisto to pro- 
 cure for them both admission into heaven for half- 
 an-hour : 
 
 To whom Mephisto: "Ah, you underrate 
 
 The hazards and the dangers, my good Sir. 
 Peter is stony as his name; the gate, 
 
 Excepting to invited guests, won't stir. 
 'Tis long since he and I were intimate; 
 
 We differed; — but to bygones why refer? 
 Still, there are windows; if a peep through these 
 Would serve your turn, we'll start whene'er you please. . . ." 
 
 So Faust and his companion entered, by 
 The window, the abodes where seraphs dwell. 
 
 "Already morning quickens in the sky, 
 And soon will sound the heavenly matin bell; 
 
WILLIAM WATSON 55 
 
 Our time is short," Mephisto said, "for I 
 
 Have an appointment about noon in hell. 
 Dear, dear! why, heaven has hardly changed one bit 
 Since the old days before the historic spht." 
 
 The excellent conventional technique displayed 
 in The Prince's Quest has characterized nearly 
 every page of Mr. Watson's works. He is not 
 only content to walk in the ways of traditional 
 poesy, he glories in it. He has a contempt for 
 heretics and experimenters, which he has ex- 
 pressed frequently not only in prose, but in verse. 
 It is natural that he should worship Tennyson; 
 natural (and unfortunate for him) that he can see 
 little in Browning. And if he is blind to Brown- 
 ing, what he thinks of contemporary "new" poets 
 may easily be imagined. With or without inspira- 
 tion, he believes that hard work is necessary, and 
 that good workmanship ought to be rated more 
 highly. This idea has become an obsession; Mr. 
 Watson writes too much about the sweat of his 
 brow, and vents his spleen on "modem" poets too 
 often. In his latest volume. Retrogression, pub- 
 lished in 1917, thirty-two of the fifty-two poems 
 are devoted to the defence of standards of poetic 
 art and of purity of speech. They are all inter- 
 esting and contain some truth; but if the "new" 
 poetry and the "new" criticism are reaUy balder- 
 dash, they should not require so much attention 
 from one of the most eminent of contemporary 
 writers. I think Mr. Watson is rather stiff- 
 necked and obstinate, like an honest, hearty coun- 
 
56 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 try squire, in Ms sturdy following of tradition. 
 Smooth technique is a fine thing in art ; but I do 
 not care whether a poem is written in conventional 
 metre or in free verse, so long as it is unmistak- 
 *ably poetry. And no garments yet invented or 
 the lack of them can conceal true poetry. Perhaps 
 the Traditionalist might reply that uninspired 
 verse gracefully written is better than uninspired 
 verse abominably written. So it is; but why 
 bother about either? He might once more insist 
 that inspired poetry gracefully written is better 
 than inspired poetry ungracefully written. And 
 I should reply that it depended altogether on the 
 subject. I should not like to see Whitman's 
 Spirit that formed this Scene turned into a Spen- 
 serian stanza. I cannot forget that David Mallet 
 tried to smoothen Hamlet's soliloquy by jamming 
 it into the heroic couplet. Mr. Watson thinks that 
 the great John Donne is dead. On the contrary, 
 he is audibly alive ; and the only time he really ap- 
 proached dissolution was when Pope "versified" 
 him. 
 
 Stephen Phillips, William Watson, Alfred 
 Noyes — each published his first volume of poems 
 at the age of twenty-two, additional evidence of 
 the old truth that poets are born, not made. Al- 
 fred Noyes is a Staffordshire man, though his re- 
 port of the county differs from that of Arnold 
 Bennett as poetry differs from prose. They did 
 not see the same things in Staffordshire, and if 
 they had, they would not have been the same 
 
ALFEED NOYES 57 
 
 things, anyhow. Mr. Noyes was horn on the six- 
 teenth of September, 1880, and made his first de- 
 parture from the traditions of English poetry in 
 going to Oxford. There he was an excellent illus- 
 tration of mens sana in corpore sano, writing 
 verses and rowing on his college crew. He is mar- 
 ried to an American wife, is a professor at Prince- 
 ton, and understands the spirit of America better 
 than most visitors who write clever books about 
 us. He has the wholesome, modest, cheerful tem- 
 perament of the American college undergraduate, 
 and the Princeton students are fortunate, not only 
 in hearing his lectures, but in the opportunity of 
 fellowship with such a man. 
 
 Mr. Noyes is one of the few poets who can read 
 his own verses effectively, the reason being that 
 his mind is by nature both literary and rhetorical 
 — a rare union. The purely literary temperament 
 is usually marked by a certain shyness which un- 
 fits its owner for the public platform. I have 
 heard poets read passionate poetry in a mufiBed 
 sing-song, something like a child learning to "re- 
 cite. ' ' The works of Alfred Noyes gain distinctly 
 by his oral interpretation of them. 
 
 He is prolific. Although still a young man, he 
 has a long list of books to his credit; and it is 
 rather surprising that in such a profusion of liter^ 
 ary experiments, the general level should be so 
 high. He writes blank verse,, octosyllabics, terza- 
 rima, sonnets, and is particularly fond of long 
 rolling lines that have in them the music of the 
 
58 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 sea. His ideas require no enlargement of th.e 
 orchestra, and he generally avoids by-paths, or 
 unbeaten tracks, content to go lustily singing 
 along the highway. Perhaps it shows more cour- 
 age to compete with standard poets in standard 
 measures, than to elude dangerous comparisons 
 by making or adopting a new fashion. Mr. Noyes 
 openly challenges the masters on their own field 
 and with their own weapons. Yet he shows noth- 
 ing of the schoolmasterish contempt for the 
 "new" poetry so characteristic of Mr. Watson. 
 He actually admires Blake, who was in spirit a 
 twentieth century poet, and he has written a fine 
 poem On the Death of Francis Thompson, though 
 he has nothing of Thompson in him except reli- 
 gious faith. 
 
 In the time-worn but useful classification of 
 versemakers under the labels Vates and Poeta, 
 Alfred Noyes belongs clearly to the latter group. 
 He is not without ideas, but he is primarily an 
 artist, a singer. He is one of the most melodious 
 of modern writers, with a witchery in words that 
 at its best is irresistible. He has an extraordi- 
 nary command of the resources of language and 
 rhythm. Were this all he possessed, he would be 
 nothing but a graceful musician. But he has the 
 imagination of the inspired poet, giving him crea- 
 tive power to reveal anew the majesty of the un-' 
 tamed sea, and the mystery of the stars. With 
 this clairvoyance — essential in poetry — he has 
 
ALFEED NOYES 59 
 
 a hearty, charming, uiicondescending sympathy 
 with "common" people, common flowers, common 
 music. One of his most original and most cap- 
 tivating poems is The Tramp Transfigured, an 
 Episode in the Life of a Corn-flower Millionaire. 
 This contains a character worthy of Dickens, a 
 faery touch of fantasy, a rippling, singing melody, 
 with delightful audacities of rime. 
 
 Tick,, tack, tick, tack, I couldn't wait no longer! 
 Up I gets and bows polite and pleasant as a toff — 
 "Artemoon," I says, "I'm glad your boots are going stronger; 
 Only thing I'm dreading is your feet 'ull both come off." 
 Tick, tack, tick, tack, she didn't stop to answer, 
 "Artemoon," she says, and sort o' chokes a little cough, 
 "I must get to Piddinghoe tomorrow if I can, sir !" 
 "Demme, my good woman! Haw! Don't think I mean to 
 
 loff," 
 Says I, like a tofE, 
 "Where d'you mean to sleep tonight? God made this grass 
 
 for go'fl." 
 
 His masterpiece, The Barrel-Organ, has some- 
 thing of Kipling's rollicking music, with less noise 
 and more refinement. Out of the mechanical 
 grinding of the hand organ, with the accompani- 
 ment of city omnibuses, we get the very breath of 
 spring in almost intolerable sweetness. This 
 poem affects the head, the heart, and the feet. I 
 defy any man or woman to read it without sur- 
 rendering to the magic of the lilacs, the magic of 
 old memories, the magic of the poet. Nor has 
 any one ever read this poem without going imme- 
 
60 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 diately back to the first line, and reading it all over 
 again, so susceptible are we to the romantic pleas- 
 ure of melancholy. 
 
 Mon coeur est un luth suspendut 
 Sitot qu'on le touche, il resonne. 
 
 Alfred Noyes understands the heart of the 
 child; as is proved by his Flower of Old Japan, 
 and Forest of Wild Thyme, a kind of singing Al- 
 ice-in-Wonderland. These are the veritable stuff 
 of dreams — wholly apart from the law of causa- 
 tion — one vision fading into another. It is our 
 fault, and not that of the poet, that Mr. Noyes 
 had to explain them: "It is no new wisdom to 
 regard these things through the eyes of little chil- 
 dren; and I know — however insignificant they 
 may be to others — these two tales contain as deep 
 and true things as I, personally, have the power 
 to express. I hope, therefore, that I may be 
 pardoned, in these hurried days, for pointing out 
 that the two poems are not to be taken merely 
 as fairy-tales, but as an attempt to follow the 
 careless and happy feet of children back into 
 the kingdom of those dreams which, as we said 
 above, are the sole reality worth living and dy- 
 ing for; those beautiful dreams, or those fantas- 
 tic jests — if any care to call them so — for which 
 mankind has endured so many triumphant mar- 
 tyrdoms that even amidst the rush and roar of 
 modern materialism they cannot be quite forgot- 
 ten. ' ' Mr. William J. Locke says he would rather 
 
ALFEED NOYES 61 
 
 give up clean linen and tobacco than give up Ms 
 dreams. 
 
 Nearly all English, poetry smells of the sea ; the 
 waves rule Britannia. Alfred Noyes loves the 
 ocean, and loves the old sea-dogs of Devonshire. 
 He is not a literary poet, like William Watson, and 
 has seldom given indication of possessing the in- 
 sight or the interpretative power of his contem- 
 porary in dealing with pure literature. He has 
 the blessed gift of admiration, and his poems on 
 Swinburne, Meredith, and other masters show a 
 high reverence ; but they are without subtlety, and 
 lack the discriminating phrase. He is, however, 
 deeply read in Elizabethan verse and prose, as 
 his Tales of the Mermaid Tavern, one of his long- 
 est, most painstaking, and least successful works, 
 proves ; and of all the Elizabethan men of action, 
 Drake is his hero. The English lovers of the sea, 
 and the German lovers of efficiency, have both done 
 honour to Drake. I remember years ago, being 
 in the town of Offenburg in Germany, and seeing 
 at a distance a colossal statue, feeling some sur- 
 prise when I discovered that the monument was 
 erected to Sir Francis Drake, "in recognition of 
 his having introduced the potato into Europe." 
 Here was where eulogy became almost too specific, 
 and I felt that their Drake was not my Drake. 
 
 Mr. Noyes called Drake, published in 1908, an 
 English Epic. It is not really an epic — it is a 
 historical romance in verse, as Aurora Leigh is a 
 novel. It is interesting from beginning to end, 
 
62 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 more interesting as narrative than as poetry. It 
 is big rather than great, rhetorical rather than 
 literary, declamatory rather than passionate. 
 And while many descriptive passages are fine, the 
 pictures of the terrible storm near Cape Horn are 
 surely less vivid than those in Dauber. Had Mr. 
 Noyes written Drake without the songs, and writ- 
 ten nothing else, I should not feel certain that he 
 was a poet ; I should regard him as an extremely 
 fluent versifier, with remarkable skill in telling a 
 rattling good story. But the Songs, especially the 
 one beginning, "Now the purple night is past," 
 could have been written only by a poet. In Forty 
 Singing Seamen there is displayed an imagination 
 quite superior to anything in Drake; and I would 
 not trade The Admiral's Ghost for the whole 
 "epic." 
 
 As a specific illustration of his lyrical power, 
 the following poem may be cited. 
 
 THE MAY-TREE 
 
 The May-tree on the hill 
 
 Stands in the night 
 So fragrant and so still, 
 
 So dusky white. 
 
 That, stealing from the wood, 
 
 In that sweet air, 
 You'd think Diana stood 
 
 Before you there. 
 
 If it be so, her bloom 
 
 Trembles with bliss. 
 She waits across the gloom 
 
 Her shepherd's kiss. 
 
ALFEED NOYES 63 
 
 Touch her. A bird will start 
 
 From those pure snows, — 
 The dark and fluttering heart 
 
 Endymion knows. 
 
 Alfred Noyes is "among the English poets." 
 His position is secure. But because he has never 
 identified himself with the "new" poetry — either 
 in choice of material or in free verse and poly- 
 phonic prose — it would be a mistake to suppose 
 that he is afraid to make metrical experiments. 
 The fact of the matter is, that after he had mas- 
 tered the technique of conventional rime and 
 rhythm, as shown in many of his lyrical pieces, he 
 began playing new. tunes on the old instrument. 
 In The Tramp Transfigured, to which I find my- 
 self always returning in a consideration of his 
 work, because it displays some of the highest 
 qualities of pure poetry, there are new metrical 
 effects. The same is true of the Prelude to the 
 Forest of Wild Thyme, and of The Burial of a 
 Queen; there ate new metres used in Rank and 
 File and in Mount Ida. The poem Astrid, in- 
 cluded in the volume The Lord of Misrule (1915), 
 is an experiment in initial rhymes. Try reading 
 it aloud. 
 
 White-armed Astrid, — ah, but she was beautiful! — 
 
 Nightly wandered weeping thro' the ferns in the moon. 
 
 Slowly, weaving her strange garland in the forest, 
 
 Crowned with white violets. 
 
 Gowned in green. 
 
 Holy was that glen where she ghded, 
 
 Making her wild garland as Merlin had bidden her. 
 
64 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 Breaking off the milk-white horns of the honeysuckle, 
 
 Sweetly dripped the new upon her small white 
 
 Feet. 
 
 The English national poetry of Mr. Noyes 
 worthily expresses the spirit of the British people, 
 and indeed of the Anglo-Saxon race. We are no 
 lovers of war; military ambition or the glory of 
 conquest is not sufficient motive to call either 
 Great Britain or America to arms ; but if the gun- 
 drunken Germans really believed that the English 
 and Americans would not fight to save the world 
 from an unspeakable despotism, they made the 
 mistake of their lives. There must be a Cause, 
 there must be an Idea, to draw out the full fighting 
 strength of the Anglo-Saxons. Alfred Noyes 
 made a correct diagnosis and a correct prophecy 
 in 1911, when he published The Sword of England. 
 
 She sheds no blood to that vain god of strife 
 
 Whom tyrants call "renown"; 
 She knows that only they who reverence life 
 
 Can nobly lay it down; 
 
 And these will ride from child and home and love, 
 
 Through death and hell that day; 
 But 0, her faith, her flag, must bum above, 
 
 Her soul must lead the way ! 
 
 I think none the worse of the mental force ex- 
 hibited in the poetry of Alfred Noyes because he 
 is an optimist. It is a common error to suppose 
 that cheerfulness is a sign of a superficial mind, 
 and melancholy the mark of deep thinking. Pes- 
 simism in itself is no proof of intellectual great- 
 
NOYES, HOUSMAN 65 
 
 ness. Every honest man must report the world 
 as he sees it, both in its external manifestations 
 and in the equally salient fact of hmnan emotion. 
 Mr. Noyes has always loved life, and rejoiced in it ; 
 he loves the beauty of the world and believes that 
 history proves progress. In an unashamed testi- 
 mony to the happiness of living he is simply tell- 
 ing truths of his own experience. Happiness is 
 not necessarily thoughtlessness; many men and 
 women have gone through pessimism and come 
 out on serener heights. 
 
 Alfred Noyes proves, as Browning proved, that 
 it is possible to be an inspired poet and in every 
 other respect to remain normal. He is healthy- 
 minded, without a trace of affectation or deca- 
 dence. He follows the Tennysonian tradition in 
 seeing that "Beauty, Good, and Knowledge are 
 three sisters." He is religious. A clear-headed, 
 pure-hearted Englishman is Alfred Noyes. 
 
 Although A Shropshire Lad was published in 
 1896, there is nothing of the nineteenth century in 
 it except the date, and nothing Victorian except 
 the allusions to the Queen. A double puzzle con- 
 fronts the reader : how could a University Profes- 
 sor of Latin write this kind of poetry, and how, 
 after having published it, could he refrain from 
 writing more ? Since the date of its appearance, 
 he has published an edition of Manilius, Book I, 
 followed nine years later by Book II ; also an edi- 
 tion of Juvenal, and many papers representing the 
 result of original research. Possibly 
 
66 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 Chill Pedantry repressed his noble rage, 
 And froze the genial current of his soul. 
 
 Alfred Edward Housman was born on tlie 
 twenty-sixth of March, 1859, was graduated from 
 Oxford, was Professor of Latin at University Col- 
 lege, London, from 1892 to 1911, and since then 
 has been Professor of Latin at Cambridge. Few 
 poets have made a deeper impression on the litera- 
 ture of the time than he ; and the sixty-three short 
 lyrics in one small volume form a slender wedge 
 for so powerful an impact. This poetry, except in 
 finished workmanship, follows no English tradi- 
 tion; it is as unorthodox as Samuel Butler; 
 it is thoroughly "modern" in tone, in temper, 
 and in emphasis. Although entirely original, it 
 reminds one in many ways of the verse of Thomas 
 Hardy. It has his paganism, his pessimism, his 
 human sympathy, his austere pride in the tragedy 
 of frustration, his curt refusal to pipe a merry 
 tune, to make one of a holiday crowd. 
 
 Therefore, since the world has still 
 Much good, but much less good than ill, 
 And while the sun and moon endure 
 Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure, 
 I'd face it as a wise man would, 
 And train for ill and not for good. 
 'Tis true, the stuff I bring for sale 
 Is not so brisk a brew as ale : 
 Out of a stem that scored the hand 
 I wrung it in a weary land. 
 But take it : if the smack is sour. 
 The better for the embittered hour; 
 
A. E. HOUSMAN 67 
 
 It should do good to heart and head 
 When your soul is in my soul's stead ; 
 And I will friend you, if I may, 
 In the dark and cloudy day. 
 
 Those lines miglit have been written by Thomas 
 Hardy. They express not merely his view of life, 
 but his faith in the healing power of the bitter herb 
 of pessimism. But we should remember that A 
 Shropshire Lad was published before the first 
 volume of Mr. Hardy's verse appeared, and that 
 the lyrical element displayed is natural rather 
 than acquired. 
 
 Though at the time of its publication the author 
 was thirty-six years old, many of the poems must 
 have been written in the twenties. The style is 
 mature, but the constant dwelling on death and the 
 grave is a mark of youth. Young poets love to 
 write about death, because its contrast to their 
 present condition forms a romantic tragedy, 
 sharply dramatic and yet instinctively felt to be 
 remote. Tennyson's first volume is full of the 
 details of dissolution, the falling jaw, the eye-balls 
 fixing, the sharp-headed worm. Aged poets do 
 not usually write in this manner, because death 
 seems more realistic than romantic. It is a fact 
 rather than an idea. When a young poet is ob- 
 sessed with the idea of death, it is a sign, not of 
 morbidity, but of normality. 
 
 The originality in this book consists not in the 
 contrast between love and the grave,, but in the 
 
68 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 acute self-consciousness of youth, in the pagan 
 determination to enjoy nature without waiting till 
 life 's summer is past. 
 
 Loveliest of trees, the cherry now 
 Is hung with bloom along the bough, 
 And stands about the woodland ride 
 Wearing white for Eastertide. 
 
 Now, of my threescore years and ten, 
 Twenty will not come again, 
 And take from seventy springs a score. 
 It only leaves me fifty more. 
 
 And since to look at things in bloom 
 Fifty springs are little room, 
 About the woodlands I will go 
 To see the cherry hung with snow. 
 
 The death of the body is not the greatest tragedy 
 in this volume, for suicide, a^ thought that youth 
 loves to play with, is twice glorified. The death 
 of love is often treated with an ironical bitterness 
 that makes one think of Time's Laughing stocks. 
 
 Is my friend hearty, 
 
 Now I am thin and pine. 
 And has he found to sleep in 
 
 A better bed than mine? 
 
 Yes, lad, I lie easy, 
 
 I lie as lads would choose; 
 I cheer a dead man's sweetheart. 
 
 Never ask me whose. 
 
 The point of view expressed in The Carpenter's 
 Son is singularly detached not only from conven- 
 tional religious belief, but from conventional 
 
A. E. HOUSMAN 69 
 
 reverence. But the originality in A Shropshire 
 Lad, while more strikingly displayed in some 
 poems than in others, leaves its mark on them all. 
 It is the originality of a man who thinks his own 
 thoughts with shy obstinacy, makes up his mind in 
 secret meditation, quite unaffected by current 
 opinion. It is not the poetry of a rebel ; it is the 
 poetry of an independent man, too indifferent to 
 the crowd even to fight them. And now and then 
 we find a lyric of flawless beauty, that lingers in 
 the mind like the glow of a sunset. 
 
 Into my heart an air that kills 
 
 Prom yon far country blows : 
 What are those blue remembered hills, 
 
 What spires, what farms are those? 
 
 That is the land of lost content, 
 
 I see it shining plain, 
 The happy highways where I went. 
 
 And cannot come again. 
 
 Mr. Housman's poems are nearer to the twentieth 
 century in spirit than the work of the late Vic- 
 torians, and many of them are curiously, prophetic 
 of the dark days of the present war. What 
 strange vision made him write such poems as The 
 Recruit, The Street Sowids to the Soldiers' Tread, 
 The Day of Battle, and On the Idle Mill of Sum- 
 mer? Change the colour of the uniforms, and 
 these four poems would fit today's tragedy ac- 
 curately. They are indeed superior to most of 
 the war poems written by the professional poets 
 since 1914. 
 
70 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 Ludlow, for ever associated with Milton's 
 Comus, is now and will be for many years to come 
 also significant in the minds of men as the home of 
 a Shropshire lad. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 JOHN MASEPIEUO 
 
 John Masefleld — new wine in old bottles — back to Chaucer — 
 the self-conscious adventurer — early education and experiences 
 — Dauher — ^Mr. Masefleld's remarks on Wordsworth — ^Words- 
 worth's famous Preface and its application to the poetry of 
 Mr. Masefleld — The Everlasting Mercy — The Widow in the 
 Bye Street and its Chaucerian mannfer— his masterpiece — The 
 Baffodil Fields — similarities to Wordsworth — ^the part played 
 by the flowers — comparison of The Daffodil Fields with Enoch 
 Arden — the war poem, August 1914 — the Ijrrics — the sonnets — 
 the novels — his object in writing— his contribution to the ad- 
 vance of poetry. 
 
 Poets are the Great Exceptions. Poets are for 
 ever performing the impossible. "No man 
 putteth new wine into old bottles . . . new wine 
 must be put into new bottles. ' ' But putting new 
 wine into old bottles has been the steady profes- 
 sional occupation of John Masefield. While many 
 of our contemporary vers librists and other ex- 
 perimentalists have been on the hunt for new bot- 
 tles, sometimes, perhaps, more interested in the 
 bottle than in the wine, John Masefield has been 
 constantly pouring his heady drink into recep- 
 tacles five hundred years old. In subject-matter ■ 
 and in language he is not in the least "tradi- 
 tional, ' ' not at all Victorian ; he is wholly modern, 
 new, contemporary. Yet while he draws his 
 themes and his heroes from his own experience, his 
 
 71 
 
72 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 inspiration as a poet comes directly from Chaucer, 
 who died in 1400. He is, indeed, the Chaucer of 
 today ; the most closely akin to Chaucer — not only 
 in temperament, but in literary manner— of all the 
 writers of the twentieth century. The beautiful 
 metrical form that Chaucer invented — rime 
 royal — ideally adapted for narrative poetry, as 
 shown m Troilus and Criseyde, is the metre chosen 
 by John Masefield for The Widow in the Bye 
 Street and for Dauber; the only divergence in The 
 Daffodil Fields consisting in the lengthening of 
 the seventh line of the stanza, for which he had 
 plenty of precedents. Mr. Masefield owes more 
 to Chaucer than to any other poet. 
 
 Various are the roads to poetic achievement. 
 Browning became a great poet at the age of 
 twenty, with practically no experience of life out- 
 side of books. He had never travelled, he had 
 never "seen the world," but was brought up in a 
 library ; and was so deeply read in the Greek poets 
 and dramatists that a sunrise on the ^gean Sea 
 was more real to him than a London fog. He 
 never saw Greece with his natural eyes. In the 
 last year of his life, being asked by an American 
 if he had been much in Athens, he replied con- 
 tritely, "Thou stick 'st a dagger in me." He be- 
 lied Goethe's famous dictum. 
 
 John Masefield was born at Ledbury, in western 
 England, in 1874. He ran away from home, 
 shipped as cabin boy on a sailing vessel, spent 
 some years before the mast, tramped on foot 
 
JOHN MASEFIELD 73 
 
 through various countries, turned up in New York, 
 worked in the old Columbia Hotel in Greenwich 
 Avenue, and had plenty of opportunity to study 
 human nature in the bar-room. Then he entered 
 a carpet factory in the Bronx. But he was the 
 last man in the world to become a carpet knight. 
 He bought a copy of Chaucer's poems, stayed up 
 till dawn reading it, and for the first time was sure 
 of his future occupation. 
 
 John Masefield is the real man-of-war-bird im- 
 agined by Walt Whitman. He is the bird self- 
 conscious, the wild bird plus the soul of the poet. 
 
 To eopo ■with heaven and earth and sea and hurricane, 
 
 Thou ship of air that never furi'st thy sails, 
 
 Days, even weeks untired and onward, through spaces, realms 
 
 gyrating, , 
 
 At dusk that look'st on Senegal, at mom America, 
 That spori;'st amid the lightning-ilash and thunder-cloud. 
 In them, in thy experiences, had'st thou my soul. 
 What joys ! what joys Were thine ! 
 
 They that go down to the sea in ships, that do busi- 
 ness in great waters, these see the works of the 
 Lord, and His wonders in the deep. They do in- 
 deed ; they see them as the bird sees them, with no 
 spiritual vision, with no self-consciousness, with 
 no power to refer or to iuterpret. It is sad that 
 so many of those who have marvellous experiences 
 have nothing else; while those who are sensitive 
 and imaginative live circumscribed. What does 
 the middle watch mean to an average seaman? 
 But occasionally the sailor is a Joseph Conrad or 
 a John Masefield. Then the visions of splendour 
 
74 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 and tlie glorious voices of nature are seen and 
 heard not only by the eye and the ear, but by the 
 spirit. 
 
 Although Chaucer took Mr. Masefield out of the 
 carpet factory even as Spenser released Keats, 
 it would be a mistake to suppose (as many do) 
 that the Ledbury boy was an uncouth vagabond, 
 who, without reading, without education, and with- 
 out training, suddenly became a poet. He had a 
 good school education before going to sea; and 
 from earliest childhood he longed to write. Even 
 as a little boy he felt the impulse to put his dreams 
 on paper; he read everythingv he could lay his 
 hands on, and during all the years of bodily toilj 
 afloat and ashore, he had the mind and the as- 
 piration of a man of letters. Never, I suppose, 
 was there a greater contrast between an indi- 
 vidual's outer and inner life. He mingled with 
 rough, brutal, decivilized creatures ; his ears were 
 assaulted by obscene language, spoken as to an 
 equal; he saw the ugliest side of humanity, and 
 the blackest phases of savagery. Yet through it 
 all, sharing these experiences with no trace of con- 
 descension, his soul was like a lily. 
 
 He descended into hell again and again, coming 
 out with his inmost spirit unblurred and shining, 
 even as the rough diver brings from the depths 
 the perfect pearl. For every poem that he has 
 written reveals two things: a knowledge of the 
 harshness of life, with a nature of extraordinary 
 purity, delicacy, and grace. To find a parallel to 
 
JOHN MASEFIELD 75 
 
 this, we must recall the figure of Dostoevski in the 
 Siberian prison. 
 
 Many men of natural good taste and good breed- 
 ing have succumbed to a coarse environment. 
 What saved our poet, and made his experiences 
 actually minister to his spiritual flame, rather than 
 burn him up? It was perhaps that final miracle 
 of humanity, acute self -consciousness, stronger in 
 some men than in others, strongest of all in the 
 creative artist. Even at the age of twenty, 
 Browning felt it more than he felt anything else, 
 and his words would apply to John Masefield, and 
 explain in some measure his thirst for sensation 
 and his control of it. 
 
 I am made up of an intensest life, 
 
 Of a most clear idea of consciousness 
 
 Of self, distinct from all its qualities. 
 
 From all affections, passions, feelings, powers; 
 
 And thus far it exists, if tracked, in all : 
 
 But linked, in me, to self-supremacy. 
 
 Existing as a centre to all things. 
 
 Most- potent to create and rule and call 
 
 Upon all things to minister to it; 
 
 And to a principle of restlessness 
 
 Which would be all, have, see, knOw, taste, feel, all — 
 
 This is myself. 
 
 Although the poem Dauber is a true story — for 
 there was such a man, who suffered both horrible 
 fear within and brutal ridicule without, who finally 
 conquered both, and who, in the first sweets of 
 victory, as he was about to enter upon his true 
 career, lost his life by falling from the yardarm— 
 
76 ADVANCE OF ENaLISH POETRY 
 
 I cannot help thinking that Mr. Masefield put a 
 good deal of himself into this strange hero. The 
 adoration of beauty, which is the lodestar of the 
 poet, lifted Dauber into a different world from the 
 life of the ship. He had an ungovernable desire 
 to paiat the constantly changing phases of beauty 
 in the action of the vessel and in the wonders of the 
 sea and sky. In this passion his shy, sensitive 
 nature was stronger than all the brute strength 
 enjoyed by his shipmates; they could destroy his 
 paintings, they could hurt his body, they could 
 torture his heart. But they could not prevent him 
 from following his ideal. Dauber died, and his 
 pictures are lost. But in the poem describing his 
 aims and his sufferings, Mr. Masefield has accom- 
 plished with his pen what Dauber failed to do with 
 his brush; the beauty of the ship, the beauty of 
 dawn and of midnight, the majesty of the storm 
 are revealed to us in a series of unforgettable pic- 
 tures. And one of Edison's ambitions is here 
 realized. At the same moment we see the fright- 
 ful white-capped ocean mountains, and we hear 
 the roar of the gale. 
 
 Water and sky were devils' brews which boiled, 
 
 Boiled, shrieked, and glowered ; but the ship was saved. 
 Snugged safely down, though fourteen sails were split. 
 Out of the dark a fiercer fury raved. 
 The grey-backs died and mounted, each crest lit 
 With a white toppling gleam that hissed from it 
 And slid, or leaped, or ran with whirls of cloud, 
 Mad with inhuman life that shrieked aloud. 
 
JOHN MASEFIELD 77 
 
 Mr. Masefield is a better poet than critic. In 
 the New York Tribune Joy 23 January 1916, he 
 spoke with modesty and candour of his own work 
 and his own aims, and no one can read what he 
 said without an increased admiration for him. 
 But it is difi&cult to forgive him for talking as he 
 did about Wordsworth, who "wrote six poems and 
 then fell asleep." And among the six are not 
 Tintern Abbey or the Intimations of Immortality. 
 Meditative poetry is not Mr. Masefield 's strongest 
 claim to fame, and we do not go to poets for illu- 
 minating literary criticism. Swinburne was so 
 violent in his "appreciations" that his essays in 
 criticism are adjectival volcanoes. Every man 
 with him was God or Devil. It is rare that a 
 creative poet has the power of interpretation of 
 literature possessed by William Watson. Mr. 
 Masefield does not denounce Wordsworth, as Swin- 
 burne denounced Byron ; he is simply blind to the 
 finest qualities of the Lake poet. Yet, although he 
 carries Wordsworth's famous theory of poetry to 
 an extreme that would have shocked the author of 
 it — if Mr. Masefield does not like Tintern Abbey, 
 we can only imagine Wordsworth's horror at The 
 Everlasting Mercy — the philosophy of poetry un- 
 derlying' both The Everlasting Mercy, The Widow 
 in the Bye Street, and other works is essentially 
 that of William Wordsworth. Keeping The Ever- 
 lasting Mercy steadily in mind, it is interesting, 
 instructive, and even amusing to read an extract 
 from Wordsworth's famous Preface of 1800. 
 
78 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 "The principal object, then, proposed in these 
 Poems was to choose incidents and situations from 
 common life, and to relate or describe them, 
 throughout, as far as was possible in a selection 
 of language really used by men, and, at the same 
 time, to throw over them a certain colouring of 
 imagination, whereby ordinary things should be 
 presented to the mind in an unusual aspect; and, 
 further, and above all, to make these incidents and 
 situations interesting by tracing in them, truly 
 though not ostentatiously, the primary laws of our 
 nature ; chiefly, as far as regards the 'manner in 
 which we associate ideas in a state of excitement. 
 Humble and rustic life was generally chosen, be- 
 cause, in that condition, the essential passions of 
 the heart find a better soil in which they can attain 
 their maturity, are less under restraint, and speak 
 a plainer and more emphatic language; because 
 in that condition of life our elementary feelings co- 
 exist in a state of greater simplicity, and, conse- 
 quently, may be more accurately contemplated, 
 and more forcibly communicated; because the 
 manners of rural life germinate from those ele- 
 mentary feelings, and, from the necessary charac- 
 ter of rural occupations, are more easily compre- 
 hended, and are more durable ; and, lastly, because 
 in that condition the passions of men are incor- 
 porated with the beautiful and permanent forms 
 of nature. ' ' 
 
 When Wordsworth wrote these dicta, he fol- 
 lowed them up with some explicit reservations. 
 
JOHN MASEFIELD 79 
 
 and made many more implicit ones. Mr. Mase- 
 field, ia the true manner of the twentieth century, 
 makes none at all. Taking the language of 
 Wordsworth exactly as it stands in the passage 
 quoted above, it applies with precision to the 
 method employed by Mr. Masefield in the poems 
 that have given him widest recognition. And in 
 carrying this theory of poetry to its farthest ex- 
 treme in The Everlasting Mercy, not only did its 
 author break with tradition, the tradition of nine- 
 teenth-century poetry, as Wordsworth broke with 
 that of the eighteenth, he succeeded in shocking 
 some of his contemporaries, who refused to grant 
 him, a place among English poets. It was in the 
 English Review for October, 1911, that The Ever- 
 lasting Mercy first appeared. It made a sensa- 
 tion. In 1912 the Academic Committee of the 
 Royal Society of Literature awarded him the 
 Edmond de Polignac prize of five hundred dollars. 
 This aroused the wrath of the orthodox poet Ste- 
 phen Phillips, who publicly protested, not with 
 any animosity toward the recipient, but with the 
 conviction that true standards of literature were 
 endangered. 
 
 It is unfortunate for an artist or critic to belong 
 to any "school" whatsoever. Belonging to a 
 school circumscribes a man's sympathies. It 
 shuts him away from outside sources of enjoy- 
 ment, and makes him incapable of appreciating 
 many new works of art, because he has prejudged 
 them even before they were written. Poetry is 
 
80 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 greater than any definition of it. There is no 
 doubt that Marpessa is a real poem ; and there is 
 no doubt that the same description is true of The 
 Everlasting Mercy. 
 
 In The Everlasting Mercy, the prize-fight, given 
 in detail, by rounds, is followed by an orgy of 
 drunkenness rising to a scale almost Homeric. 
 The man, crazy with alcohol, runs amuck, and 
 things begin to happen. The village is turned up- 
 side down. Two powerful contrasts are dramati- 
 cally introduced, one as an interlude between vio- 
 lent phases of the debauch, the other as a conclu- 
 sion. The first is the contrast between the insane 
 buffoon and the calm splendour of the night. 
 
 I opened window wide and leaned 
 
 Out of that pigstye of the fiend 
 
 And felt a cool wind go like grace 
 
 About the sleeping market-place. 
 
 The clock struck three, and sweetly, slowly, 
 
 The bells chimed Holy, Holy, Holy; 
 
 And in a second's pause there fell 
 
 The cold note of the chapel bell, 
 
 And then a cock crew, flapping wings. 
 
 And summat made me think of things. 
 
 How long those ticking clocks had gone 
 
 From church and chapel, on and on. 
 
 Ticking the time out, ticking slow 
 
 To men and girls who'd come and go. 
 
 These thoughts suddenly become intolerable. 
 A second fit of madness, wilder than the first, 
 drives the man about the town like a tornado. 
 Finally and impressively comes the contrast be- 
 tween the drunkard's horrible mirth and the sud- 
 
JOHN MASEFIELD 81 
 
 den calm in Ms mind when the tall pale Quakeress 
 hypnotizes him with conviction of sin. She drives 
 out the devils from his hreast with quiet authority, 
 and the peace of God enters into his soul. 
 
 From the first word of the poem to the last the 
 man's own attitude toward fighting, drink, and 
 religion is logically sustained. It is perfect 
 drama, with never a false note. The hero is one 
 of the "twice-born men," and the work may fairly 
 be taken as one more footnote to the varieties of 
 religious experience. 
 
 I have been told on good authority that of all his 
 writings Mr. Masefield prefers Nan, The Widow 
 in the Bye Street, and The Everlasting Mercy. I 
 think he is right. In these productions he has no 
 real competitors. They are his most original, 
 most vivid, most powerful pieces. He is at his 
 best when he has a story to tell, and can tell it 
 freely in his own unhampered way, a combination 
 of drama and narrative. In The Everlasting 
 Mercy, written in octosyllabics, the metre of 
 Christmas Eve, he is unflinchingly realistic, as 
 Browning was in describing the chapel. The 
 Athenceum thought Browning ought not to write 
 about the mysteries of the Christian faith in dog- 
 gerel. But Christmas Eve is not doggerel. It 
 is simply the application of the rules of realism 
 to a discussion of religion. It may lack the dig- 
 nity of the Essay on Man, but it is more interest- 
 ing because it is more definite, more concrete, more 
 real. In The Everlasting Mercy we have beauti- 
 
82 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 ful passages of description, sliarply exciting nar- 
 ration, while the dramatic element is furnished by- 
 conversation — and what conversation! It differs 
 from ordinary poetry as the sermons of an 
 evangelist differ from the sermons of Bishops. 
 Mr. Masefield is a natural-born dramatist. He is 
 never content to describe his characters ; he makes 
 them talk, and talk their own language, and you 
 will never go far in his longer poems without see- 
 ing the characters rise from the page, spring into 
 life, and immediately you hear their voices raised 
 in angry altercation. It is as though he felt the 
 reality of his men and women so keenly that he 
 cannot keep them down. They refuse to remain 
 quiet. They insist on taking the poem into their 
 own hands, and running away with it. 
 
 When we are reading The Widow in the Bye 
 Street we realize that Mr. Masefield has studied 
 with some profit the art of narrative verse as dis- 
 played by Chaucer. The story begins directly, 
 and many necessary facts are revealed in the first 
 stanza, in a manner so simple that for the mo- 
 ment we forget that this apparent simplicity is 
 artistic excellence. The Nidi's Priest's Tale is a 
 model of attack. 
 
 A poure wydwe, somdel stope in age, 
 Was whilom dwellynge in a narwe cottage, 
 Beside a grove, stondynge in a dale. 
 This wydwe, of -which I telle yow my tale, 
 Syn thilke day that she Was last a wyf. 
 In pacience ladde a ful symple lyf, 
 Tor litel was hir catel and hir rente. 
 
JOHN MASEFIELD 83 
 
 Now if I could have only one of Mr. Masefield's 
 books, I would take The Widow in the Bye Street. 
 Its opening lines have the much-in-little so char- 
 acteristic of Chaucer. 
 
 Down Bye Street, in a little Shropshire town, 
 There lived a widow with her only son : 
 She had no wealth nor title to renown, 
 Nor any joyous hours, never one. 
 She rose from ragged mattress before sun 
 And stitched all day until her eyes were red, 
 And had to stitch, because her man was dead. 
 
 This is one of the best narrative poems in mod- 
 em literature. It rises from calm to the fiercest 
 and most tumultuous passions that usurp the 
 throne of reason. Love, jealousy, hate, revenge, 
 murder, succeed in cumulative force. Then the 
 calm of unmitigated and hopeless woe returns, 
 and we leave the widow in a solitude peopled only 
 with memories. It is melodrama elevated into 
 poetry. The mastery of the artist is shown in 
 the skill with which he avoids the quagmire of 
 sentimentality. "We can easily imagine what form 
 this story would take under the treatment of many 
 popular writers. But although constantly ap- 
 proaching the verge, Mr. Masefield never falls in. 
 He has known so much sentimentality, not merely 
 in books and plays, but in human beings, that he 
 understands how to avoid it. Furthermore, he is 
 steadied by seeing so plainly the weaknesses of 
 his characters, just as a great nervous specialist 
 gains in poise by observing his patients. And 
 
84 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 perhaps our author feels the sorrows of the widow 
 too deeply to talk about them with any conven- 
 tional affectation. 
 
 I should like to find some one who, without much 
 familiarity with the fixed stars in English litera- 
 ture, had read The Daffodil Fields, and then ask 
 him to guess who wrote the following stanzas : 
 
 A gentle answer did the old Man make, 
 In courteous speech "which forth he slowly drew; 
 And him with further words I thus bespake, 
 "What occupation do you there pursue? 
 This is a lonesome place for one like you." 
 Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise 
 Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes. 
 
 "This will break Michael's heart," he said at length. 
 "Poor Michael," she replied; "they wasted hours. 
 He loved his father so. God give him strength. 
 This is a cruel thing this life of ours." 
 The windy woodland glimmered with shut flowers, 
 White wood anemones that the wind blew down. 
 The valley opened wide beyond the starry town. 
 
 And I think he would reply with some confi- 
 dence, "John Masefield." He would be right 
 concerning the second stanza; but the first is, as 
 every one ought to know and does not, from 
 Resolution and Independence, by William Words- 
 worth. It is significant that this is one of the six 
 poems excepted by Mr. Masefield from the mass of 
 Wordsworthian mediocrity. It is, of course, a 
 great poem, although when it was published (1807, 
 written in 1802), it seemed by conventional stand- 
 ards no poem at all. Shortly after its appear- 
 
JOHN MASEFIELD 85 
 
 ance, some one read it aloud to an intelligent 
 woman ; she sobbed unrestrainedly ; then, recover- 
 ing herself, said shamefacedly, "After all, it isn't 
 ;^oetry. ' ' The reason, I suppose, why she thought 
 it could not be poetry was because it was so much 
 nearer life than "art." The simplicity of the 
 scene ; the naturalness of the dialogue ; the home- 
 liness of the old leech-gatherer; these all seemed 
 to be outside the realm of the heroic, the elevated, 
 the sublime, — the particular business of poetry, 
 as she mistakenly thought. The reason why John 
 Masefield admires this poem is because of its 
 vitality, its naturalness, its easy dialogue — ^main 
 characteristics of his own work. In writing The 
 Daffodil Fields, he consciously or unconsciously 
 selected the same metre, introduced plenty of con- 
 versation, as he loves to do in all his narrative 
 poetry, and set his tragedy on a rural stage. 
 
 It is important here to repeat the last few 
 phrases already quoted from Wordsworth's 
 famous Preface: "The manners of rural life 
 germinate from those elementary feelings, and, 
 from the necessary character of rural occupations, 
 are more easily comprehended, and are more dur- 
 able; and, lastly, because in that condition the 
 passions of men are incorporated with the beau- 
 tiful and permanent forms of nature." If Mr. 
 Masefield had written this preface for The Daffo- 
 dil Fields, he could not have more accurately ex- 
 pressed both the artistic aim of his poem and its 
 natural atmosphere. "Tlie passions of men are 
 
86 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 incorporated with the beautiful and permanent 
 forms of nature." In this work, each one of the 
 seven sections ends with the daffodils ; so that no 
 matter how base and truculent are the revealed 
 passions of man, the final impression at the close 
 of each stage is the unchanging loveliness of the 
 delicate golden flowers. Indeed, the daffodils not 
 only fill the whole poem with their fluttering 
 beauty, they play the part of the old Greek chorus. 
 At the end of each act in this steadily growing 
 tragedy, they comment in their own incomparable 
 way on the sorrows of man. 
 
 So the night passed; the noisy wind went down; 
 The half -burnt moon her starry trackway rode. 
 Then the jfirst fire was lighted in the town, 
 And the first carter stacked his early load. 
 Upon the farm's drawn blinds the morning glowed ; 
 And down the valley, with little clucks and rills, 
 The dancing waters danced by dancing daffodils. 
 
 But if, consciously or unconsciously, Mr. Mase- 
 field in the composition of The Daffodil Fields 
 followed the metre and the manner of Words- 
 worth in Resolution and Independence, in the story 
 itself he challenges Tennyson's Enoch Arden. 
 Whether he meant to challenge it, I do not know; 
 but the comparison is unescapable. Tennyson did 
 not invent the story, and any poet has the right to 
 use the material in his own fashion. Knowing 
 Mr. Masefield from The Everlasting Mercy and 
 The Widow in the Bye Street, it would have been 
 safe to prophesy in advance that his own Enoch 
 
JOHN MASEFIELD 87 
 
 would not show the self-restraint practised by the 
 Tennysonian hero. Reserve and restraint were 
 the trump cards of the Typical Victorian, just as 
 the annihilation of all reserve is a characteristic 
 of the twentieth-century artist. In the Idylls of 
 the King, the parting of Guinevere and Arthur was 
 what interested Tennyson; the poets of today 
 would of course centre attention on the parting of 
 Guinevere and Lancelot, and like so many "ad- 
 vances," they would in truth be only going back 
 to old Malory. 
 
 "Neither in the design nor in the telling did, 
 or could, Enoch Arden come near the artistic 
 truth of The Daffodil Fields," says Professor 
 Quiller- Couch, of Cambridge. I am not entirely 
 sure of the truth of this very positive statement. 
 Each is a rural poem ; the characters are simple ; 
 the poetic accompaniment supplied by the daffo- 
 dils in one poem is supplied in the other by the 
 sea. And yet, despite this latter fact, if one reads 
 Enoch Arden immediately after The Daffodil 
 Fields, it seems to be without salt. It lacks 
 flavour, and is almost tasteless compared with the 
 biting condiments of the other poem, prepared as 
 it was for the sharper demands of twentieth-cen- 
 tury palates. We like, as Browning thought 
 Macready would like "stabbing, drabbing, et 
 autres gentillesses," and Mr. Masefield knows how 
 to supply them. Yet I am not sure that the self- 
 denial of Enoch and the timid patience of Philip 
 do not both indicate a certain strength absent in 
 
88 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 Mr. Masefield's wildly exciting tale. Of course 
 Tennyson's trio are all "good" people, and he 
 meant to make them so. In the other work 
 Michael is a selfish scoundrel, Lion is a murderer, 
 and Mary an adulteress; and we are meant to 
 sympathize with all three, as Mr. Galsworthy 
 wishes us to sympathize with those who follow 
 their instincts rather than their consciences. One 
 poem celebrates the strength of character, the 
 other the strength of passion. But there can be 
 no doubt that Enoch (and perhaps Philip) loved 
 Annie more than either Michael or Lion loved 
 Mary — which is perhaps creditable; for Mary is 
 more attractive. 
 
 One should remember also that in these two 
 poems — so interesting to compare in so many dif- 
 ferent ways — Tennyson tried to elevate a homely 
 theme into "poetry"; whereas Mr. Masefield finds 
 the truest poetry in the bare facts of life and 
 feeling. Tennyson is at his best outside of drama, 
 wherever he has an opportunity to adorn and em- 
 bellish; Mr. Masefield is at his best in the fierce 
 conflict of human wills. Thus Enoch Arden is not 
 one of Tennyson's best poems, and the best parts 
 of it are the purely descriptive passages ; whereas 
 in The Daffodil Fields Mr. Masefield has a sub- 
 ject made to his hand, and can let himself go with 
 impressive power. In the introduction of con- 
 versation into a poem — a special gift with Mr. 
 Masefield — Tennyson is usually weak, which 
 ought to have taught him never to venture into 
 
JOHN MASEFIELD 89 
 
 drama. Nothing is worse in Enoch Arden than 
 passages like these : 
 
 "Annie, this voyage by the grace of God 
 Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. 
 Keep a clean hearth and a clear Are for me, 
 For I'll be back, my girl, before you know it." 
 Then lightly rocking baby's cradle, "and he, 
 This pretty, puny, weakly little one, — 
 Nay — for I love him all the better for it — 
 God bless him, he shall sit upon my knees 
 And I will tell him tales of foreign parts. 
 And make him merry, when I come home again. 
 Come, Annie, come, cheer up before I go." 
 
 One of the reasons why twentieth-century read- 
 ers are so impatient with Enoch Arden, is because 
 Tennyson refused to satisfy the all but universal 
 love of a fight. The conditions for a terrific 
 ' ' mix-up ' ' were all there, and just when the spec- 
 tator is looking for an explosion of wrath and 
 blood, the poet turns away into the more heroic 
 but less thrilling scene of self-conquest. Mr. 
 Masefield may be trusted never to disappoint his 
 readers in such fashion. It might be urged that 
 whereas Tennyson gave a picture of man as he 
 ought to be, Mr. Masefield painted him as he really 
 is. 
 
 But The Daffodil Fields is not melodrama. It 
 is a poem of extraordinary beauty. Every time 
 I read it I see in it some "stray beauty-beam" 
 that I missed before. It would be impossible to 
 translate it into prose; it would lose half its in- 
 terest, and all of its charm. It would be easier 
 
90 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 to translate Tennyson's Dora into prose than The 
 Daffodil Fields. In fact, I have often thought 
 that if the story of Dora were told in concise 
 prose, in the manner of Guy de Maupassant, it 
 would distinctly gain in force. 
 
 No poet, with any claim to the name, can be 
 accurately labelled by an adjective or a phrase. 
 You may think you know his "manner," and he 
 suddenly develops a different one; this you call 
 his "later" manner, and he disconcerts you by 
 harking back to the "earlier," or trying some- 
 thing, that if you must have labels, you are forced 
 to call his "latest," knowing now that it is sub- 
 ject to change without notice. Mr. Masefield pub- 
 lished The Everlasting Mercy in 1911 ; The Widow 
 in the Bye Street in 1912; Dauber in 1912; The 
 Daffodil Fields in 1913. We had him classified. 
 He was a writer of sustained narrative, unscrupu- 
 lous in the use of language, bursting with vitality, 
 sacrificing anything and everything that stood in 
 the way of his effect. This was "red blood" 
 verse raised to poetry by sheer inspiration, backed 
 by remarkable skill in the use of rime. We 
 looked for more of the same thing from him, know- 
 ing that in this particular field he had no rival. 
 
 Then came the war. As every soldier drew his 
 sword, every poet drew his pen. And of all the 
 poems published in the early days of the struggle, 
 none equalled in high excellence August 1914, by 
 John Masefield. And its tone was precisely the 
 opposite of what his most famous efforts had led 
 
JOHN MASEFIELD 91 
 
 us to expect. It was not a lurid picture of whole- 
 sale murder, nor a bottle of vitriol thrown in the 
 face of the Kaiser. After the thunder and the 
 lightning, came the still small voice. It is a poem 
 in the metre and manner of Gray, with the same 
 silver tones of twilit peace — heartrending by con- 
 trast with the Continental scene. 
 
 How still this fjuiet cornfield is to-night ; 
 
 By an intenser glow the evening falls, 
 Bringing, not darkness, but a deeper light; 
 
 Among the stocks a partridge covey calls. 
 
 The windows glitter on the distant hill ; 
 
 Beyond the hedge the sheep-bells in the fold 
 Stumble on sudden music and are still; 
 
 The forlorn pinewoods droop above the wold. 
 
 An endless quiet valley reaches out 
 Past the blue hills into the evening sky; 
 
 Over the stubble, cawing, goes a rout 
 
 Of rooks from harvest, flagging as they fly. 
 
 So beautiful it is I never saw 
 
 So great a beauty on these English fields 
 
 Touched, by the twilight's coming, into awe. 
 Ripe to the soul and rich with summer's yields. 
 
 The fields are inhabited With the ghosts of 
 ploughmen of old who gave themselves for Eng- 
 land, even as the faithful farmers now leave scenes 
 inexpressibly dear. For the aim of our poet is to 
 magnify the lives of the humble and the obscure, 
 whether on land or sea. In the beautiful Conse- 
 cration that he prefixed to Salt-Water Ballads, he 
 expressly turns his back on Commanders, on Eul- 
 
92 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 ers, on Princes and Prelates, in order to sing 
 of the stokers and chantymen, yes, even of the 
 dust and scum of the earth. They work, and 
 others get the praise. They are inarticulate, but 
 have found a spokesman and a champion in the 
 poet. His sea-poems in this respect resemble 
 Conrad's sea-novels. This is perhaps one of the 
 chief fimctions of the man of letters, whether he 
 be poet, novelist or dramatist — never to let us 
 forget the anonymous army of toilers. For, as 
 Clyde Fitch used to say, the great things do not 
 happen to the great writers ; the great things hap- 
 pen to the little people they describe. 
 
 Although Mr. Masefield's reputation depends 
 mainly on his narrative poems, he has earned a 
 high place among lyrical poets. These poems, at 
 least many of them, are as purely subjective as 
 The Everlasting Mercy was purely objective. 
 Earely does a poem unfurl with more loveliness 
 than this : 
 
 I have seen dawn and sunset on moors and windy hills 
 Coming in solemn beauty like slow old tunes of Spain ; 
 
 I have seen the lady April bringing the daffodils, 
 
 Bringing the springing grass and the soft warm April 
 rain. 
 
 In Tewheshury Road and in Sea Fever the poet 
 expresses the urge of his own heart. In Bi- 
 ography he quite properly adopts a style exactly 
 the opposite of the biographical dictionary. 
 Dates and events are excluded. But the various 
 moments when life was most intense in actual ex- 
 
JOHN MASEFIELD 93 
 
 perience, sights of mountains on sea and land, 
 long walks and talks with an intimate friend, the 
 frantically fierce endeavour in the racing cutter, 
 quiet scenes of beauty in the peaceful country- 
 side. "The days that make us happy make us 
 wise." 
 
 As Mr. Masefield's narratives take us back to 
 Chaucer, so his Sonnets (1916) take us back to the 
 great Elizabethan sequences. Whether or not 
 Shakespeare unlocked his heart in his sonnets is 
 impossible to determine. Wordsworth thought he 
 did, Browning thought quite otherwise. But these 
 sonnets of our poet are undoubtedly subjective; 
 no one without the necessary information would 
 guess them to come from the author of The Ever- 
 lasting Mercy. They reveal what has always 
 been — through moving accidents by flood and field 
 — the master passion of his mind and heart, the 
 worship of Beauty. The entire series illustrates a 
 tribute to Beauty expressed in the first one — "De- 
 light in her made trouble in my mind." This 
 mental disturbance is here the spur to composi-. 
 tion. They are experiments in relative, medita- 
 tive, speculative poetry; and while they contain 
 some memorable lines, and heighten one's respect 
 for the dignity and sincerity of their author 's tem- 
 perament, they are surely not so successful as 
 his other work. They are not clearly articulate. 
 Instead of the perfect expression of perfect 
 thoughts — a gift enjoyed only by Shakespeare — 
 they reveal the extreme difficulty of metrically 
 
94 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 voicing Ms "trouble." It is in a way liie the 
 music of the Liebestod. He is struggling to say 
 what is in his mind, he approaches it, falls away, 
 comes near again, only to be finally baffled. 
 
 In 1918 Mr. Masefield returned to battle, murder 
 and sudden death in the romantic poem Rosas. 
 This is an exciting tale told in over a hundred 
 stanzas, and it is safe to say that any one who 
 reads the first six lines will read to the end 
 without moving in his chair. Although this is the 
 latest in publication of our poet's works, it sounds 
 as if it were written years ago, before he had at- 
 tained the mastery so evident in The Widow in 
 the Bye Street. It will add little to the author's 
 reputation. 
 
 I do not think Mr. Masefield has received suffi- 
 cient credit for his prose fiction. In 1905 he pub- 
 lished A Mainsail Haul, which contained a num- 
 ber of short stories and sketches, many of which 
 had appeared in the Manchester Guardian. It is 
 interesting to recall his connection with that 
 famous journal. These are the results partly of 
 his experiences, partly of his reading. It is plain 
 that he has turned over hundreds of old volumes of 
 buccaneer lore. And humour is as abundant here 
 as it is absent from his best novels. Captain Mar- 
 garet and Multitude and Solitude: These two 
 books, recently republished in America, met with 
 a chilling reception from the critics. For my 
 part, I not only enjoyed reading them, I think 
 every student of Mr. Masefield 's poetry might 
 
JOHN MASEFIELD 95 
 
 read them witL. profitable pleasure. They are 
 romances that only a poet could have written. It 
 "would be easier to turn them into verse than it 
 would be to turn his verse-narratives into prose, 
 and less would be lost in the transfer. In Multi- 
 tude and Solitude, the author has given us more 
 of the results of his own thinking than can be 
 found in most of the poems. Whole pages are 
 filled with the pith of meditative thought. In 
 Captain Margaret, we have a remarkable com- 
 bination of the love of romance and the romance 
 of love. 
 
 In response to a question asked him by the 
 Tribune interviewer, as to the guiding motive in 
 his writing, Mr. Masefield replied: "I desire to 
 interpret life both by reflecting it as it appears 
 and by portraying its outcome. Great art must 
 contain these two attributes. Examine any of 
 the dramas of Shakespeare, and you will find that 
 their action is the result of a destruction of bal- 
 ance in the beginning. It is like a cartful of ap- 
 ples which is overturned. All the apples are 
 spilled in the street. But you will notice that 
 Shakespeare piles them up again in his incom- 
 parable manner, many bruised, broken, and maybe 
 a few lost. ' ' This is certainly an interesting way 
 of putting the doctrine of analysis and synthesis 
 as applied to art. 
 
 What has Mr. Masefield done then for the ad- 
 vance of poetry! One of his notable services is 
 to have made it so interesting that thousands look 
 
96 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 forward to a new poem from him as readers look 
 for a new story by a great novelist. He has 
 helped to take away poetry from its conventional 
 * ' elevation ' ' and bring it everywhere poignantly in 
 contact with throbbing life. Thus he is emphatic- 
 ally apart from so-called traditional poets who 
 brilliantly follow the Tennysonian tradition, and 
 give us another kind of enjoyment. But although 
 Mr. Masefield is a twentieth century poet, it would 
 be a mistake to suppose that he has originated the 
 doctrine that the poet should speak in a natural 
 voice about natural things, and not cultivate a 
 "diction." Browning spent his whole life fight- 
 ing for that doctrine, and went to his grave cov- 
 ered with honourable scars. Wordsworth success- 
 fully rebelled against the conventional garments 
 of the Muse. Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Brown- 
 ing are the poets who took human nature as they 
 found it; who thought life itself was more inter- 
 esting than any theory about it; who made lan- 
 guage appropriate to the time, the place, and the 
 man, regardless of the opinion of those who 
 thought the Muse ought to wear a uniform. The 
 aim of our. best twentieth century poets is not 
 really to write something new and strange, it is to 
 get back to those poets who lived up to their con- 
 viction that the business of poetry is to chronicle 
 the stages of all life. This is not the only kind of 
 poetry, but it is the kind high in favour during 
 these present years. The fountain-head of poetry 
 is human nature, and our poets are trying to get 
 
JOHN MASEFIELD 97 
 
 back to it, just as many of the so-called advances 
 in religious thought are really attempts to get 
 back to the Founder of Christianity, before the 
 theologians built their stockade around Him. 
 Mr. Masefield is a mighty force in the renewal of 
 poetry; in the art of dramatic narrative he goes 
 back to the sincerity and catholicity of Chaucer. 
 For his language, he has carried Wordsworth's 
 idea of "naturalness" to its extreme limits. For 
 his material, he finds nothing common or unclean. 
 But all his virility, candour, and sjrmpathy, backed 
 by all his astonishing range of experience, would 
 not have made him a poet, had he not possessed 
 imagination, and the power to express his vision 
 of life, the power, as he puts it, of getting the ap- 
 ples back into the cart. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 GIBSON AND HODGSON 
 
 Two Northumberland poets — Wilfrid Wilson Gibson — his 
 early failures— his studies of low life — his collected poems — ^his 
 short dramas of pastoral experiences— -Da*?^/ Bread — lack of 
 melody — uncanny imagination — whimsies — poems of the Great 
 War — their contrast to conventional sentimental ditties — the 
 accusation — his contribution to the advance of poetry. — Ralph 
 Hodgson — his shyness — his slender output — his fastidious self- 
 criticism- — his quiet facing of the known facts in nature and in 
 humanity— his love of books — his humour — his respect for 
 wild and tame animals — the high percentage of artistic excel- 
 lence in his work. — Lascelles Abercrombie. 
 
 Wilfrid Wilson Gribson — a horrible moutkful— 
 was born in Hexham, Northumberland, in 1878. 
 Like Walt Whitman's, his early poetry was ortho- 
 dox, well groomed, and uninteresting. It pro- 
 duced no effect on the public, but it produced upon 
 its author a mental condition of acute discontent 
 —the necessary conviction of sin preceding regen- 
 eration. Whether he could ever succeed in bring- 
 mg his verse down to earth, he did not then 
 know ; but so far as he was concerned, he not only 
 got down to earth, but got under it. He made 
 subterranean expeditions with the miners, he fol- 
 lowed his nose into slums, he talked long hours 
 with the unclassed, and listened sympathetically 
 to the lamentations of sea-made widows. His 
 nature — extraordinarily delicate and sensitive — 
 
 98 
 
"WILFEID WILSON GIBSON 99 
 
 received deep wounds, the scars of which appeared 
 in his subsequent poetry. Now he lives where 
 John Masefield was born, and like him, speaks for 
 the inarticulate poor. 
 
 In 1917 Mr. Gibson collected his poems in one 
 thick volume of some five hundred and fifty pages. 
 This is convenient for reference, but desperately 
 hard to read, on account of the soggy weight of the 
 book. Here we have, however, everything that 
 he has thus far written which he thinks worth pre- 
 serving. The first piece, Akra the Slave (1904), 
 is a romantic monologue in free verse. Although 
 rather short, it is much too long, and few persons 
 will have the courage to read it through. It is 
 incoherent, spineless, consistent only in dulness. 
 Possibly it is worth keeping as a curiosity. Then 
 comes Stonefolds (1906), a series of bitter bucolics. 
 This is pastoral poetry of a new and refreshing 
 kind — as unlike to the conventional shepherd- 
 shepherdess mincing, intolerable dialogue as could 
 well be imagined. For, among all the groups of 
 verse, in which, for sacred order's sake, we ar- 
 range English literature, pastoral poetry easily 
 takes first place in empty, tinkling artificiality. 
 In Stonefolds, we have six tiny plays, never con- 
 taining more than four characters, and usually 
 less, which represent, in a rasping style, the un- 
 ending daily struggle of generation after genera- 
 tion with the relentless forces of nature. It is sur- 
 prising to see how, in four or five pages, the author 
 gives a clear view of the monotonous life of sev- 
 
100 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 enty years ; in this particular art, Strindberg him- 
 self has done no better. The experience of age 
 is contrasted with the hope of youth. Perhaps 
 the most impressive of them all is The Bridal 
 where, in the presence of the newly wedded pair, 
 the man's old, bed-ridden mother speaks of the 
 chronic misery of her married life, intimates that 
 the son is just like his dead father, and that there- 
 fore the bride has nothing ahead of her but trag- 
 edy. Then comes the conclusion, which reminds 
 one somewhat of the close of Ibsen's Lady from 
 the Sea. The young husband throws wide the 
 door, and addresses his wife as follows: 
 
 The door is open; you are free to go. 
 Why do you tarry? Are you not afraid? 
 Go, ere I hate you. I'll not hinder you. 
 I would not have you bound to me by fear. 
 Don't fear to leave me ; rather fear to bide 
 With me who am my father's very son. 
 Go, lass, while yet I love you ! 
 
 Esther (closing the door). I shall bide. 
 I have heard all; and yet, I would not go. 
 Nor would I have a single word unsaid. 
 I loved you, husband; yet, I did not know you 
 Until your mother spoke. I know you now; 
 And I am not afraid. 
 
 The first piece in Stonefolds represents the 
 tragic helplessness of those newly born and those 
 very old, a favourite theme with Maeterlinck. A 
 lamb and a child are born on the same night, and 
 both die before dawn. The lamb is a poetic sym- 
 bol of babyhood. Nicholas, the aged shepherd, 
 
WILFEID WILSON GIBSON 101 
 
 who longs to go out into the night and do his share 
 of the work that must be done, but who is unable 
 even to move, thus addresses the dying lamb : 
 
 Poor, bleating beast ! We two are much alike, 
 At either end of life, though scarce an hour 
 You've been in this rough world, and I so long 
 That death already has me by the heels; 
 For neither of us can stir to help himself, 
 But both must bleat for others' aid. This world 
 Is rough and bitter to the newly bom. 
 But far more bitter to the nearly dead. 
 
 In Daily Bread (1908-09), there are eighteen 
 brief plays, written not in orthodox blank verse, 
 like Stonefolds, but in irregular, brittle, breathless 
 metres. Here is where art takes the short cut 
 to life, sacrificing every grace to gain reality; the 
 typical goal and method of twentieth-century 
 poetry. So long as a vivid impression of char- 
 acter and circumstance is produced, the writer ap- 
 parently cares nothing about style. I say "ap- 
 parently," because the styleless style is perhaps 
 the one best adapted to produce the sought-for 
 effect. There is ever one difference between life 
 and ' * art ' ' — between drama and theatre — that Mr. 
 Gibson has, I suppose, tried to cancel in these 
 poems of daily bread. In art,, the bigger the 
 drama, the bigger the stage ; one could not mount 
 Gdtterddmmerung in a village schoolhouse. But 
 Life does not fit the splendour of the setting to 
 the grandeur of the struggle. In bleak farm cot- 
 tages, in dull dwellings in city blocks, in slum tene- 
 
102 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 ments, the greatest of life's tragedies and come- 
 dies are enacted — love, hate, avarice, jealousy, 
 revenge, birth, death — the most terrific passions 
 known to human nature are fully presented, with- 
 out the slightest care for appropriate scenery 
 from the Master of the show. Thus our poet leads 
 us by the hand into sea-girt huts, into hovels at 
 the mouths of mines, into garrets of noisy cities, 
 and makes us silent witnesses of elemental woe. 
 Here Labour, man's greatest blessing, takes on 
 the aspect of the primal curse, since so many 
 tragedies spring from the simple root of poverty. 
 The love of money may be the root of all evil, but 
 the lack of it is the cause of much pain. 
 
 It was a happy inspiration that made Mr. Gib- 
 son call these scenes Daily Bread; for it is the 
 struggle, not for comfort, but for existence, that 
 drives these men from mother, wife, and child 
 into the thick of the fight. Many novels and plays 
 are written nowadays against "big business," 
 where, among other real and imagined evils, the 
 Business itself is represented as the villain in the 
 home, alienating the husband's affections from 
 wife and children. Whatever may be the case 
 with the private soldiers, the Captain of Industry 
 does not, and by the nature of things cannot, con- 
 fine his labours to an eight-hour day — ^when he 
 finally comes home, he brings the business with 
 him, forming a more well-founded cause of jeal- 
 ousy than the one usually selected for conventional 
 drama. Mr. Gibson, however, is not interested 
 
WILFEID WILSON GIBSON 103 
 
 in the tragic few, but in the tragic many, and in 
 his poems the man of the house leaves early and 
 returns late. The industrial war caused by social 
 conditions takes him from home as surely and as 
 perilously as though he were drafted into an ex- 
 peditionary force. The daily parting is poignant, 
 for every member of the family knows he may 
 not come back. Perhaps the most dramatic illus- 
 tration of this corroding worry is seen in The 
 Night-Shift, where four women with a newly-born 
 baby spend a night of agonized waiting, only to 
 have their fears confirmed in the dawn. 
 
 The wife, weak from childbirth, sits up in bed, 
 and speaks : 
 
 Will no one stop that tapping? 
 
 I cannot sleep for it. 
 
 I think that someone is shut in somewhere, 
 
 And trying to get out. 
 
 WUl no one let them out, 
 
 And stop the tapping? 
 
 It keeps on tapping, tapping. . . . 
 
 Tap . . . tap . . . tap . . . tap . . . 
 
 And I can scarcely breathe, 
 
 The darkness is so thick. 
 
 It stifles me, 
 
 And weighs so heavily upon me, 
 
 And drips, and drips. . . . 
 
 My hair is wet already; 
 
 There's water all about my knees. . . . 
 
 As though great rocks were hanging overhead ! 
 
 And dripping, dripping. . . . 
 
 I cannot lift my feet. 
 
 The water holds them, 
 
 It's creeping . . . creeping . . . creeping. . . . 
 
 My wet hair drags me dowa. 
 
104 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 Ah, God! 
 
 Will no one stop that tapping. . . . 
 
 I cannot sleep. . . . 
 
 And I would sleep 
 
 Till he comes home. . . . 
 
 Tap . . . tap . . . tap . . . tap . . . 
 
 These poems were, of course, composed before 
 the war. In the greater tragedy, some of the 
 lesser ones disappear. For example, Mr. Gib- 
 son represents young, able-bodied, healthy and 
 temperate men as unable to find work of any 
 kind; their wives and children starve because 
 of the absence of employment. Surely, since 
 August, 1914, this particular cause of suffering 
 has been removed. 
 
 In Womenkind (1909), dedicated to Rabbi and 
 Mrs. Wise, we have a real play, not only dramatic 
 in character and situation, but fitted for stage 
 representation without the change of a word. 
 The theme is just the opposite of Middleton's old 
 drama. Women Beware Wo))ien. Here the two 
 young women, one the mistress-mother, and one 
 the bride, join forces against the man, and walk 
 out of his house on the wedding-day. They feel 
 that the tie between them is stronger than the 
 tie which had united them severally to the man, 
 and depart to live together. The play closes on a 
 note of irony, for Jim, his blind father, and his 
 weary mother repeat in turn — but with quite dif- 
 ferent emphasis — the accusation that women are 
 a faithless lot. 
 
 The long series of poems called Fires (1910-11) 
 
WILFEID WILSON GIBSON 105 
 
 differ in matter and manner from the earlier 
 works. The form of drama is abandoned, and in 
 its place we have vivid rimed narrative, mingled 
 with glowing pictures of natural scenery, taken at 
 all hours of the day and night. Each of his poems 
 must be taken as a whole,, for each poem strives 
 for a single effect. This effect is often gained by 
 taking some object, animate or inanimate, as a 
 symbol. Thus, in The Hare, the hunted animal 
 is the symbol of woman. The Flute, The Light- 
 house, and The Money mean more than their defi- 
 nition. Mr. Gibson is somewhat kinder to his 
 readers in this collection, for the monotony of 
 woe, that hangs over his work like a cloud, is 
 rifted here and there by a ray of happiness. In 
 The Shop, the little boy actually recovers from 
 pneumonia, and our share in the father's delight 
 is heightened by surprise, for whenever any of 
 our poet's characters falls into a sickness, we have 
 learned to expect the worst. Still, the darker side 
 of life remains the author's chosen field of ex- 
 ploration. Two pieces are so uncanny that one 
 might almost think they proceeded from a dis- 
 ordered imagination. The blind boy, who every 
 day has rowed his father back and forth from 
 the fishing-grounds, while the man steered, one 
 day rows cheerfully toward home, unaware that 
 his father is dead. The boy wonders at his fath- 
 er's silence, and laughingly asserts that he has 
 heard him snoring. Then his mirth changes to 
 fear, and fear to horror. 
 
106 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 Though none has ever known 
 How he rowed in, alone, 
 And never touched a reef. 
 Some say they saw the dead man steer — 
 The dead man steer the blind man home- 
 Though, when they found him dead. 
 His hand was cold as lead. 
 
 Another strange poem describes how a cripple 
 sits in his room, with a mother eternally stitching 
 for bread, and watches out of the window the 
 giant crane swinging vast weights through the 
 sky. One night, while he is half -dead with fear, 
 the great crane swoops down upon him, clutches 
 his bed, and swings him, bed and all, above the 
 sleeping city, among the blazing stars. 
 
 Following Mr. Gibson's development as a poet, 
 year by year, we come to Thoroughfares 
 (1908-14). These are short poems more conven- 
 tional in form than their predecessors, but just as 
 stark and grim as chronicles of life. Every one 
 remembers the torture inflicted on women in the 
 good-old-times, when they were strapped to posts 
 on the flats at low tide, and allowed to watch the 
 cruel slowness of approaching death. The same 
 theme, with an even more terrible termination, is 
 selected by Mr. Gibson in Solway Ford, where 
 the carter is pinned by the heavy, overturned 
 wagon on the sands; while the tide gradually 
 brings the water toward his helpless body. He 
 dies a thousand deaths in imagination, but is res- 
 cued just as the waves are lapping the wheels. 
 Now he lies in bed, an incurable idiot, smiling as 
 
WILFEID WILSON GIBSON 107 
 
 lie sees gold and sapphire fishes swimming in the 
 water over his head. . . . That rarest of all Eng- 
 lish metres — ^which Browning chose for One Word 
 More — is employed by Mr. Gibson in a compound 
 of tragedy-irony called The Vindictive Staircase. 
 Unfortunately the rhythm is so closely associated 
 with Browning's love-poem, that these lines sound 
 like a parody : 
 
 Mrs. Murphy, timidest of spectres, 
 You who were the cheeriest of chaxers, 
 With the heart of innocence and only 
 Torn between a zest for priest and porter, 
 Mrs. Murphy of the ample bosom, — 
 Suckler of a score or so of children. 
 
 It seems best to leave this measure in the undis- 
 turbed possession of the poet who used it su- 
 premely well. Yet some of the verses in Thor- 
 oughfares are an advance on Mr. Gibson's previ- 
 ous work. No reader will ever forget Wheels. 
 
 Passing over Borderlands (1912-14) which, 
 with the exception of Akra, is the least successful 
 of Mr. Gibson's works, we come to his most orig- 
 inal contribution to modern poetry, the short 
 poems included under the heading Battle 
 (1914^15). These verses afford one more bit of 
 evidence that in order to write unconventional 
 thoughts, it is not necessary to use unconventional 
 forms. The ideas expressed here can be found 
 in no other war-poet; they are idiosyncratic to 
 the highest degree; yet the verse-forms in which 
 they are written are stanzaic, as traditional as the 
 
108 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 most conservative critic could desire. There is, 
 of course, no reason why any poet should not com- 
 pose in new and strange rhythms if he prefers 
 to do so ; but I have never believed that original- 
 ity in thought necessarily demands metrical meas- 
 ures other than those found in the history of Eng- 
 lish literature. 
 
 These lyrical poems are dramatic monologues. 
 Each one is the testimony of some soldier in the 
 thick of the fight as to what he has seen or heard, 
 or as to what memories are strongest in his mind 
 as he lies in the filth of the trenches. Conven- 
 tional emotions of enthusiasm, glory, sacrifice, 
 courage, are omitted, not because they do not exist, 
 but simply because they are taken for granted; 
 these boys are aflame with such feelings at the 
 proper time. But Mr. Gibson is more interested 
 in the strange, fantastic thoughts, waifs of mem- 
 ory, that wander across the surface of the mind in 
 the midst of scenes of horror. And we feel that 
 the more fantastic these thoughts are, the more 
 do they reflect the deep truths of experience. 
 Home naturally looms large, and some of the recol- 
 lections of home take on a grim humour, strangely 
 in contrast with the present environment of the 
 soldier. 
 
 HIS FATHER 
 
 I quite forgot to put the spigot in. 
 
 It's just come over me. . . . And it is queer 
 To think he'll not care if we lose or win. 
 
 And yet be jumping-mad about that beer. 
 
WILFRID WILSON GIBSON 109 
 
 I left it running full. He must have said 
 A thing or two. I'd give my stripes to hear 
 
 What he will say if I'm reported dead 
 Before he gets me told about that beer ! 
 
 It would appear that the world has grown up, 
 or at all events, grown much older, during the 
 last forty years. It has grown older at a high 
 rate of speed. The love of country is the same 
 as ever, because that is a primal human passion, 
 that will never change, any more than the love of 
 the sexes; but the expression of battle-poems 
 seems more mature, more sophisticated, if you 
 like, in this war than in any preceding conflict. 
 Most of the verses written in England and in 
 America are as different as may be from "Just 
 before the battle, mother," which was so popular 
 during our Civil War. Never before has the 
 psychology of the soldier been so acutely studied 
 by national poets. And instead of representing 
 the soldier as a man swayed by a few elemental 
 passions and lush sentiment, he is presented as 
 an extraordinarily complex individual, with every 
 part of his brain abnormally alert. Modern 
 poetry, in this respect, has,, I think, followed the 
 lead of the realistic prose novel. Such books as 
 Tolstoi's Sevastopol, and Zola's La Debacle, have 
 had a powerful effect in making war poetry more 
 analytical; while that original story. The Red 
 Badge of Courage, written by an inspired young 
 American, Stephen Crane, has left its mark on 
 many a volume of verse that has been produced 
 
110 ADVANCE OF ENaLISH POETRY 
 
 since August, 1914. The unabashed realism of 
 the trenches, together with the psychology of the 
 soldier, is clearly and significantly reflected in 
 Prom the Front (1918), a book of poems writ- 
 ten by men in service, edited by Lieut. C. E. An- 
 drews. 
 
 What is going to become of us all if the ob- 
 session of self -consciousness grows ever stronger? 
 
 There is not a trace of cheap sentiment in Bat- 
 tle. Even the poems that come nearest to the 
 emotional surface are saved by some specific 
 touch, like the sense of smell, which,, as every one 
 knows, is a sharper spur to the memory than any 
 other sensation. 
 
 Tonight they're sitting by the peat 
 
 Talking of me, I know-^ 
 Grandfather in the ingle-seat, 
 
 Mother and Meg and Joe. 
 
 I feel a sudden puff of heat 
 
 That sets my ears aglow, 
 And smell the reek of burning peat 
 
 Across the Belgian snow. 
 
 Browning wrote of Shelley, who had been dead 
 eleven years. 
 
 The air seems bright with thy past presence yet. 
 
 A similar effect of brightness in life and after- 
 glow in death, seems to have been made on every 
 one who knew him by Rupert Brooke. No young 
 poet of the twentieth century has left such a flam- 
 
WILFRID WILSON GIBSON 111 
 
 ing glory as he. The prefatory poem to Mr. Gib- 
 son's Friends (1915-16), beautifully expresses the 
 common feeling: 
 
 He's gone. 
 
 I do not understand. 
 
 I only know 
 
 That as he turned to go 
 
 And waved his hand 
 
 In his young eyes a sudden glory shone : 
 
 And I was dazzled by a sunset glow, 
 
 And he was gone. 
 
 The fine sonnets that follow strengthen the strong 
 colour, and are among the most authentic claims 
 to poetry that their author has set forth. The 
 second one, contrasting the pale glimmer of the 
 London garret with the brilliant apparition of 
 Brooke at the open door, "like sudden April," is 
 poignant in its beauty. The verses in this volume 
 are richer in melody than is customary with Mr. 
 Gibson, yet The Pessimist and The Ice-Cart show 
 that he is as whimsical as ever. He has no end 
 of fun with his fancy. 
 
 Livelihood (1914^16) takes us back to the bitter 
 pessimism of Stonefolds and Daily Bread; only 
 instead of being dialogues, these stories are given 
 in descriptive form, and for the most part in regu- 
 lar pentameter rime. The best of them is In the 
 Orchestra, where the poor fiddler in the band at 
 the cheap music-hall plays mechanically every 
 night for his daily bread, while his heart is torn 
 by the vulture of memory. This poem shows a 
 
112 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 firm grasp of the material ; every word adds some- 
 thing to the total impression. 
 
 Mr. Gibson's constantly repeated pictures of 
 the grinding, soul-crnshing labour of the poor 
 seem to say J 'accuse! Yet he nowhere says it 
 explicitly. He never interrupts his narrative 
 with "My Lords and Gentlemen," nor does he 
 comment, like Hood in The Song of the Shirt. 
 
 Yet the effect of his work is an indictment. 
 Only, whom does he accuse? Is it the govern- 
 ment; is it society; is it God? 
 
 Mr. Gibson's latest book of poems, Hill-TracTcs 
 (1918), differs from his previous works in two 
 respects. It is full of pictures of the open fields 
 of Northumberland, the county where he was 
 born; and nearly every piece is an attempt at a 
 singing lyric, something seldom found in his Col- 
 lected Poems. I say an "attempt" Avith delibera- 
 tion, for song is not the most natural expression 
 of this realistic writer, and not more than half of 
 the fifty lyrics in this handsome volume are suc- 
 cessfully melodious. Some are trivial, and hardly 
 deserve such beauty of type and paper; others, 
 however, will be gladly welcomed by all students 
 of Mr. Gibson's work, because they exhibit the 
 powers of the author in an unusual and charm- 
 ing manner. I should think that those familiar 
 with the topography and with the colloquialisms 
 constantly appearing in this book, would read it 
 with a veritable delight of reminiscence. 
 
WILFRID WILSON GIBSON 113 
 
 NORTHUMBERLAND 
 
 Heatherland and bent-land — 
 Black land and wMte, 
 God bring me to Northumberland, 
 The land of my delight. 
 
 Land of singing waters, 
 And winds from ofE the sea, 
 God bring me to Northumberland, 
 The land where I would be. 
 
 Heatherland and bent-land, 
 And valleys rich with com, 
 God bring me to Northumberland, 
 The land where I was bom. 
 
 Tlie shadow of the war darkens nearly every 
 page of this volume, and the last poem expresses 
 not the local but the universal sentiment of us who 
 remain in our homes. 
 
 We who are left, how shall we look again 
 Happily on the sun, or feel the rain. 
 Without remembering how they who went 
 Ungrudgingly, and spent 
 Their all for us, loved, too, the sun and rain? 
 
 A bird among the rain-wet lilac sings — 
 But we, how shall we turn to Httle things 
 And listen to the birds and winds and streams 
 Made holy by their dreams. 
 Nor feel the heart-break in the heart of things? 
 
 An interesting feature of the Collected Poems 
 is a striking unfinished portrait of the author by 
 Mrs. Wise ; but I think it was an error to publish 
 all these verses in one volume. They produce an 
 
114 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 impression of grey monotony which is hardly fair 
 to the poet. The individuals change their names, 
 but they pass through the same typical woe of 
 childbirth, desertion, loveless old age, incipient 
 insanity, with eternal joyless toil. One will form 
 a higher opinion if one reads the separate volumes 
 as they appeared, and not too much at a time. 
 
 His contribution to the advance of English 
 poetry is seen mainly in his grim realism, in his 
 direct, unadorned presentation of what he be- 
 lieves to be the truth, whether it be the facts of 
 environment, or the facts of thought. Conven- 
 tional war-poetry, excellently represented by Ten- 
 nyson's Charge of the Light Brigade, which itself 
 harks back to Drayton's stirring Ballad of Agin- 
 court, has not the slightest echo in these volumes ; 
 and ordinary songs of labour are equally remote. 
 Face to face with Life — that is where the poet 
 leads us, and where he leaves us. He is far indeed 
 from possessing the splendid lyrical gift of John 
 Masefield; he has nothing of the literary quality 
 of William "Watson. He writes neither of roman- 
 tic buccaneers nor of golden old books. But he 
 is close to the grimy millions. He writes the short 
 and simple annals of the poor. He is a poet of the 
 people, and seems to have taken a vow that we 
 shall not forget them. 
 
 Ealph Hodgson was born somewhere in Nor- 
 thumberland about forty years ago, and success- 
 fully eluded the notice of the world until the year 
 
EALPH HODGSON 115 
 
 1907. He is by nature such a recluse that I feel 
 certain he would prefer to attract no attention 
 whatever were it not for the fact that it is as 
 necessary for a poet to print his songs as it is 
 for a bird to sing them. His favourite compan- 
 ions are Shelley, Wordsworth, and a bull terrier, 
 and he is said to play billiards with ' ' grim earnest- 
 ness." In 1907 he published a tiny volume called 
 The Last Blackbird, and in 1917 another and 
 tinier one called Poems. During this decade he 
 printed in a few paper booklets, which some day 
 will be valuable curiosities, separate pieces such 
 as Eve, The Bull, The Mystery. These are now 
 permanently preserved in the 1917 book. This 
 thin volume, weighing only two or three ounces, 
 is a real addition to the English poetry of the 
 twentieth century. 
 
 It is impossible to read the verse of Ralph 
 Hodgson without admiration for the clarity of 
 his art and respect for the vigour of his mind. 
 Although many of his works are as aloof from his 
 own opinions as a well-executed statue, the 
 strength of his personality is an immanent force. 
 He writes much and publishes little; he is an in- 
 tellectual aristocrat. He has the fastidiousness 
 which was the main characteristic of the tempera- 
 ment of Thomas Gray; and he has as well Gray's 
 hatred of publicity and much of Gray's lambent 
 humour, more salty than satiric. His work is de- 
 cidedly caviare to the general, not because it is 
 obscure, which it is not, but because it presupposes 
 
116 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 much background. Lovers of nature and lovers of 
 books will love these verses, and reread them many- 
 times ; but they are not for all markets. No con- 
 temporary poet is more truly original than he; 
 but his originality is seen in his mental attitude 
 rather than in newness of form or strangeness of 
 language. The standard metres are good enough 
 for him, and so are the words in common use. 
 His subjects are the world-old subjects of poetry 
 — birds, flowers, men and women. Religion is as 
 conspicuously absent as it is in the works of Keats ; 
 its place is taken by sympathy for humanity and 
 an extraordinary sympathy for animals. He is 
 as far from the religious passion of Francis 
 Thompson as he is from the sociological inquisi- 
 tiveness of Mr. Gibson. To him each bird, each 
 flower appears as a form of worship. Men and 
 women appeal to him not because they are poor or 
 downtrodden, but simply because they are men 
 and women. He is neither an optimist nor a pes- 
 simist ; the world is full of objects both interesting 
 and beautiful, which will pay a rich return to those 
 who observe them accurately. This is as near as 
 he has thus far come to any philosophy or any 
 theology : 
 
 THE MYSTERY 
 
 He came and took me by the hand 
 
 Up to a red rose tree, 
 He kept His meaning to Himself 
 
 But gave a rose to me. 
 
RALPH HODGSON 117 
 
 I did not pray Him to lay bare 
 
 The mystery to me, 
 Enough the rose was Heaven to smell, 
 
 And His own face to see. 
 
 It is the absolute object that interests this poet, 
 rather than vague or futile speculation about it. 
 The flower in the crannied wall he would leave 
 there. He would never pluck it out, root and all, 
 wondering about the mystery of the life principle. 
 No poet is more clean-eyed. His eyes are achro- 
 matic. He has lost his illusions gladly; every 
 time he has lost an illusion he has gained a new 
 idea. The world as it is seems to him more beau- 
 tiful, more interesting than any false-coloured pic- 
 ture of it or any longing to remould it nearer to 
 the heart 's desire. He faces life with steady com- 
 posure. But it is not the composure either of 
 stoicism or of despair. He finds it so wonderful 
 just as it is that he is thankful that he has eyes 
 to see its beauty, ears to hear its melodies — 
 enough for his present mortal state. 
 
 AFTER 
 
 "How fared you when you mortal were? 
 
 What did you see on my peopled star?" 
 "Oh, weU enough," I answered her, 
 
 "It went for me where mortals are ! 
 
 "I saw blue flowers and the merlin's flight 
 
 And the rime on the wintry tree, 
 Blue doves I saw and summer light 
 
 On the wings of the cinnamon bee." 
 
118 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 There is in all this a kind of reverent worship 
 without any trace of mysticism. And still less of 
 that modern attitude more popular and surely 
 more fruitless than mysticism — defiance. 
 
 There is a quite different side to the poetry of 
 Mr. Hodgson, which one would hardly suspect 
 after reading his outdoor verse. The lamplit 
 silence of the library is as charming to him as 
 the fragrant silence of the woods. He is as much 
 of a recluse among books as he is among flowers. 
 No poet of today seems more self-sufficient. Al- 
 though a lover of humanity, he seems to require 
 no companionship. He is no more lonely than a 
 cat, and has as many resources as Tabby herself. 
 Now when he talks about books, his poetry be- 
 comes intimate, and forsakes all objectivity. 
 His humour, a purely intellectual quality with him, 
 rises unrestrainedly. 
 
 MY BOOKS 
 
 When the folks have gone to bed, 
 
 And the lamp is burning low, 
 And the Are bums not so red 
 
 As it burned an hour ago, 
 
 Then I turn about my chair 
 
 So that I can dimly see 
 Into the dark comers where 
 
 Lies my modest library. 
 
 Volumes gay and volumes grave, 
 
 Many volumes have I got; 
 Many volumes though I have, 
 
 Many volumes have I not. 
 
EALPH HODaSON 119 
 
 I have not the rare Lueasta, 
 
 London, 1649; 
 I'm a lean-pursed poetaster, 
 
 Or the book had long been mine. . . . 
 
 Near the "Wit's Interpreter" 
 
 (Like an antique Whitaker, 
 Full of strange etcetera), 
 
 "Areopagitica," 
 
 And the muse of Lyeidas, 
 
 Lost in meditation deep. 
 Give the cut to Hudibras, 
 
 Unaware the knave's asleep. . . . 
 
 There lies Coleridge, bound in green. 
 
 Sleepily still wond'ring what 
 He meant Kubla Khan to mean, 
 
 In that early Wordsworth, Mat. 
 
 Arnold knows a faithful prop, — 
 
 Still to subject-matter leans, 
 Murmurs of the loved hill-top, 
 
 Fyfleld tree and Cumnor scenes. 
 
 The poem closes with a high tribute to Shelley, 
 "more than all the others mine." 
 
 The following trifle is excellent fooling: 
 
 THE GREAT AUK'S GHOST 
 
 The Great Auk's ghost rose on one leg, 
 Sighed thrice and three times winkt. 
 
 And turned and poached a phantom egg. 
 And muttered, "I'm extinct." 
 
 But it is in the love of unextinct animals that 
 Mr. Hodgson's poetic powers find their most ef- 
 fective display. His masterpiece on the old un- 
 
120 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 happy Bull is surprisingly impressive; surpris- 
 ingly, because we almost resent being made to 
 feel such ardent sympathy for the poor old Bull, 
 when there are so many other and more impor- 
 tant objects to be sorry for. Yet the poet draws 
 us away for the moment from all the other trag- 
 edies in God's universe, and absolutely compels 
 our pity for the Bull. The stanzas in this poem 
 swarm with life. 
 
 From a certain point of view, poets are justi- 
 fied in calling attention to the sufferings of our 
 animal brothers. For it is the sufferings of ani- 
 mals, even more than the sorrows of man, that 
 check our faith either in the providence or in 
 the love of God. Human suffering may possibly 
 be balanced against the spiritual gain it (some- 
 times) brings; and at all events, we know that 
 there is no road to greatness of character except 
 through pain. But what can compensate the 
 dumb animals for their physical anguish? It is 
 certainly difficult to see their reward, unless they 
 have immortal souls. That this is no slight ob- 
 stacle in the way of those who earnestly desire to 
 believe in an ethical universe, may be seen from 
 the fact that it was the sight of a snake swallowing 
 a toad that destroyed once for all the religious 
 beliefs of Turgenev ; and I know a man of science 
 in America who became an agnostic simply from 
 observation of a particular Texas fly that bites 
 the cattle. The Founder of Christianity recog- 
 nized this problem, as He did every other painful 
 
EALPH HODaSON 121 
 
 fact in life, when He made the remark about the 
 sparrow. 
 
 Yet even the pessimists ought not to be quite so 
 sure that God is morally inferior to man. Even 
 their God may be no more amused by human 
 anguish then men are amused by the grotesque 
 floppings of a dying fish. 
 
 The villains in the world are those who have 
 no respect for the personality of birds and beasts. 
 And their cruelty to animals is not deliberate or 
 vindictive — it arises from crass stupidity. 
 
 STUPIDITY STEEET 
 
 I saw with open eyes 
 
 Singing birds sweet 
 Sold in the shops 
 
 For the people to eat, 
 Sold in the shops of 
 
 Stupidity Street. 
 
 I saw in vision 
 
 The worm in the wheat, 
 And in the shops nothing 
 
 For people to eat; 
 Nothing for sale in 
 
 Stupidity Street. 
 
 The poet's attitude toward the lion in the jun- 
 gle, the bull in the field, the cat in the yard, the bird 
 on the tree is not one of affectionate petting, for 
 love and sympathy are often mingled — consciously 
 or unconsciously — with condescension. There is 
 no trace of condescension in the way Mr. Hodg- 
 son writes of animals. He treats them with re- 
 
122 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 spect, and not only hates to see them hurt, he 
 hates to see their dignity outraged. 
 
 THE BELLS OF HEAVEN 
 
 'Twould ring the bells of Heaven 
 The wildest peal for years, 
 If Parson lost his senses 
 And people came to theirs, 
 And he and they together 
 Knelt down with angry prayers 
 For tamed and shabby tigers 
 And dancing dogs and bears, 
 And wretched, blind pit ponies. 
 And little hunted hares. 
 
 I confess that I have often felt a sense of shame 
 for humanity when I have observed men and 
 women staring through the bars at the splendid 
 African cats in cages, and have also observed that 
 their foolish stare is returned by the lion or tiger 
 with a dull look of infinite boredom. Nor is it 
 pleasant to see small boys pushing sticks through 
 the safe bars, in an endeavour to irritate the royal 
 captives. One remembers Browning's superb lion 
 in The Glove, whom the knight was able to ap- 
 proach in safety, because the regal beast was com- 
 pletely lost in thought — he was homesick for the 
 desert, oblivious of the little man-king and his 
 duodecimo court. 
 
 Although the total production of Ralph Hodg- 
 son is slight in quantity, the percentage of excel- 
 lence is remarkably high. The reason for this is 
 clear. Instead of printing everything he writes, 
 and leaving the employment of the cream-sepa- 
 
LASCELLES ABEECEOMBIE 123 
 
 rator to Ms readers, he gives to the public only 
 what has passed his own severe scrutiny. He is 
 a true poet, with an original mind. 
 
 As for the work of Lascelles Abercrombie, which 
 has been much praised in certain circles, I should 
 prefer to leave the criticism of that to those who 
 enjoy reading it. If I should attempt to "do 
 justice" to his poetry, I should seem to his friends 
 to be doing just the opposite — the opposite of just. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 BROOKE, FLICKER, DB LA MAKE, AND OTHERS 
 
 Eupert Brooke — a personality — the spirit of youth — his hor- 
 ror at old age — Henry James's tribute — his education — a 
 genius — his poems of death — his affected cynicism — his nature 
 poems — war sonnets — his supreme sacrifice — his charming 
 humour — his masterpiece, Grantchester. — James Elroy Flecker 
 — the editorial work of Mr. Squire^ — ^no posthumous puffery — 
 the case of Crashaw — life of Flecker — his fondness for re- 
 vision — his friendship with Eupert Brooke — his skill as a 
 translator — his austerity — art for art's sake — his "brightness" 
 ■ — love of Greek mythology — steady mental development — his 
 definition of the aim of poetry. — Walter De La Mare — ^the 
 poet of shadow — Hawthorne's tales — his persistence — his re- 
 flective mood — his descriptive style — his Shakespeare charac- 
 ters — his sketches from life. — D. H. Lawrence — his lack of 
 discipline — his subjectivity — absence of reserve — a master of 
 colour — his glaring excesses. — John Drinkwater — the west of 
 England — his healthy spirit. — ^W. H. Davies — the tramp poet. 
 — Edward Thomas — his death — originality of his work.— Eob- 
 ert Nichols — Willoughby Weaving. — The young Oxford poets. 
 
 Rupert Brooke left the world in a chariot of fire. 
 He was something more than either a man or a 
 poet; he was and is a Personality. It was as a 
 Personality that he dazzled his friends. He was 
 overflowing with tremendous, contagious vitality. 
 He was the incarnation of the spirit of youth, 
 wearing the glamour and glory of youth like a 
 shining garment. Despite our loss, it almost 
 seems fitting that he did not live to that old age 
 
 124 
 
EUPEET BEOOKE 125 
 
 which he never understood, for which he had such 
 little sympathy, and which he seems to have hated 
 more than death. For he had the splendid in- 
 solence of youth. Youth commonly feels high- 
 spirited in an unconscious, instinctive fashion, like 
 a kitten or a puppy; but Eupert Brooke was as 
 self-consciously young as a decrepit pensioner is 
 self-consciously old. He rejoiced in the strength 
 of his youth, and rolled it as a sweet morsel un- 
 der his tongue. He was so glad to be young, and 
 to know every morning on rising from sleep that 
 he was still young ! His passionate love of beauty 
 made him see in old age only ugliness; he could 
 not foresee the joys of the mellow years. All he 
 saw consisted of grey hairs, wrinkles, double 
 chins, paunches. To him all old people were 
 Struldbrugs. We smile at the insolence of youth, 
 because we know it will pass with the beauty and 
 strength that support it. Ogniben says, "Youth, 
 with its beauty and grace, would seem bestowed 
 on us for some such reason as to make us partly 
 endurable till we have time for really becoming 
 so of ourselves, without their aid ; when they leave 
 us . . . little by little, he sees fit to forego claim 
 after claim on the world, puts up with a less and 
 less share of its good as his proper portion ; and 
 when the octogenarian asks barely a sup of gruel 
 and a fire of dry sticks, and thanks you as for his 
 full allowance and right in the comnion good of 
 life, — hoping nobody may murder him, — ^he who 
 began by asking and expecting the whole of us 
 
126 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 to bow down in worship to Mm, — ^why, I say lie is 
 advanced." 
 
 Henry James — whose affectionate tribute in the 
 preface to Brooke's Letters is impressive testi- 
 mony — saw in the brilliant youth, besides the ac- 
 cident of genius, a perfect illustration of the high- 
 est type of Englishman, bred in the best English 
 way, in the best traditions of English scholarship, 
 and adorned with the good sense, fine temper, and 
 healthy humour of the ideal Anglo-Saxon. He in- 
 deed enjoyed every possible advantage; like Mil- 
 ton and Browning, had he been intended for a 
 poet from the cradle, his bringing-up could not 
 have been better adapted to the purpose. He was 
 born at Rugby, on the third of August, 1887, where 
 his father was one of the masters in the famous 
 school. He won a poetry prize there in 1905. 
 The next year he entered King's College, Cam- 
 bridge; his influence as an undergraduate was 
 notable. He took honours in classics, went abroad 
 to study in Munich, and returned to Grantchester, 
 which he was later to celebrate in his best poem. 
 He had travelled somewhat extensively on the 
 Continent, and in 1913 went on a journey through 
 the United States and Canada to the South Seas. 
 I am glad he saw the Hawaiian Islands, for no one 
 should die before beholding that paradise. At 
 the outbreak of war, he enlisted, went to Antwerp, 
 and later embarked on the expedition to the 
 Dardanelles. He was bitten by a fly, and died of 
 bloodpoisoning on a French hospital ship, the day 
 
EUPEET BEOOKE 127 
 
 being Shakespeare's, the twenty-third of April, 
 1915. He was buried on a Greek island. 
 
 Eupert Brooke lived to be nearly twenty-eight 
 years old, a short life to show ability in most of 
 the ways of the world, but long enough to test the 
 quality of a poet, not merely in promise, but in 
 performance. There is no doubt that he had the 
 indefinable but unmistakable touch of genius. 
 Only a portion of his slender production is of 
 high rank, but it is enough to preserve his name. 
 His Letters, which have been underestimated, 
 prove that he had mental as well as poetical pow- 
 ers. Had he lived to middle age, it seems certain 
 that his poetry would have been tightly packed 
 with thought. He had an alert and inquisitive 
 mind. 
 
 Many have seemed to think that the frequent 
 allusions to death in his poetry are vaguely proph- 
 etic. They are, of course — ^with the exception of 
 the war-poems — ^nothing of the kind, being merely 
 symptomatic of youth. They form the most con- 
 ventional side of his work. His cynicism toward 
 the love of the sexes was a youthful affectation, 
 strengthened by his reading. He was deeply read 
 in the seventeenth-century poets, who delighted in 
 imagining themselves passing from one woman 
 to another — swearing "by love's sweetest part, 
 variety." At all events, these poems, of which 
 there are comparatively many, exhibit his least 
 attractive side. The poem addressed to The One 
 Before the Last, ends 
 
128 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 Oh ! bitter thoughts I had in plenty, 
 
 But here's the worst of it — 
 I shall forget, in Nineteen-twenty, 
 
 You ever hurt a bit! 
 
 He was perhaps, too young to understand two 
 great truths — that real love can exist in the midst 
 of wild passion, and that the best part of it can 
 and often does survive the early flames. Such 
 poems as Menelaus and Helen, Jealousy, and oth- 
 ers, profess a profound knowledge of life that is 
 really a profound ignorance. 
 
 His pictures of nature, while often beautiful, 
 lack the penetrative quality seen so constantly in 
 Wordsworth and Browning; these greater poets 
 saw nature not only with their eyes, but with their 
 minds. Their representations glow with enduring 
 beauty, but they leave in the spectator something 
 even greater than beauty, something that is food 
 for reflection and imagination, the source of quick- 
 coming fancies. Compare the picture of the pines 
 in Brooke's poem Pine-Trees and the Sky: Eve- 
 ning, with Browning's treatment of an identical 
 theme in Paracelsus, remembering that Brown- 
 ing's lines were written when he was twenty- two 
 years old. Brooke writes, 
 
 Then from the sad west turning wearily, 
 I saw the pines against the white north sky. 
 
 Very beautiful, and still, and bending over 
 Their sharp black heads against a quiet sky. 
 
 Browning writes, 
 
RUPEET BROOKE 129 
 
 The herded pines commune, and have deep thoughts, 2 
 A secret they assemble to discuss. 
 When the sun drops behind their trunks which glare 
 Like grates of hell. 
 
 Both in painting and in imagination the second 
 passage is instantly seen to be superior. 
 
 The war sonnets of 1914 receive so much addi- 
 tional poignancy by the death of the author that it 
 is difficult, and perhaps undesirable, to judge them 
 as objective works of art. They are essentially 
 noble and sincere, speaking from the depths of 
 high-hearted self-sacrifice. He poured out his 
 young life freely and generously, knowing what 
 it meant to say good-bye to his fancy. There is 
 always something eternally sublime — something 
 that we rightly call divine — ^in the spendthrift giv- 
 ing of one's life-blood for a great Cause. And 
 Rupert Brooke was intensely aware of the value 
 of what he unhesitatingly gave. 
 
 The two "fish" poems exhibit a playful, charm- 
 ing side to Brooke's imagination; but if I could 
 have only one of his pieces, I should assuredly 
 choose Grantchester. Nostalgia is the mother of 
 much fine poetry; but seldom has the expression 
 of it been mingled more exquisitely with humour 
 and longing. By the rivers of Babylon he sat 
 down and laughed when he remembered Zion. 
 And his laughter at Babylon is so different from 
 his laughter at Grantchester. A few felicitous 
 adjectives sum up the significant difference be- 
 
130 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 tween Germany and England. Writing in a Ber- 
 lin cafe, he says : 
 
 Here tulips bloom as they are told ; 
 
 Unkempt about those hedges blows 
 
 An English unofficial rose; 
 
 And there the unregulated sun 
 
 Slopes down to rest when day is done, 
 
 And wakes a vague unpunctual star, 
 
 A slippered Hesper; and there are 
 
 Meads toward Haslingfield and Coton 
 
 Where das Betreten's not verboten. . . . 
 
 Oh, is the water sweet and cool, 
 
 Gentle and brown, above the pool ? 
 
 And laughs the immortal river still 
 
 Under the mill, under the mill? 
 
 Say, is there Beauty yet to find 1 
 
 And Certainty? and Quiet kind? 
 
 Deep meadows yet, for to forget 
 
 The lies, and truths, and pain? ... oh! yet 
 
 Stands the Church clock at ten to three? 
 
 And is there honey still for tea? 
 
 When Hamlet died, he bequeathed his reputa- 
 tion to Horatio, the official custodian of his good 
 name. He could not have made a better choice. 
 Would that all poets who die young were equally 
 fortunate in their posthumous editors ! For there 
 are some friends who conceive it to be their duty 
 to print every scrap of written paper the bard 
 left behind him, even if they have to act as scaven- 
 gers to find the "remains"; and there are others 
 who think affection and admiration for the dead 
 are best shown by adopting the methods and the 
 language of the press-agent. To my mind, the pi- 
 ous memoir of Tennyson is injured by the inclu- 
 
JAMES ELEOY FLECKEE 131 
 
 sion of a long list of "testimonials," which assure 
 us that Alfred Tennyson was a remarkable poet. 
 Mr. J. C. Squire, under whose auspices the works 
 of Flecker appear in one handsome volume, is an 
 admirable editor. His introduction is a model of 
 its kind,, giving the necessary biographical in- 
 formation, explaining the chronology, the origin, 
 the background of the poems, and showing how 
 the poet revised his earlier work; the last para- 
 graph ought to serve as an example to those who 
 may be entrusted with a task of similar delicacy 
 in the future. "My only object in writing this 
 necessarily rather disjointed Introduction is to 
 give some information that may interest the 
 reader and be useful to the critic; and if a few 
 personal opinions have slipped in they may con- 
 veniently be ignored. A vehement 'puff prelim- 
 inary' is an insolence in a volume of this kind; 
 it might pardonably be supposed to imply either 
 doubts about the author or distrust of his read- 
 ers.' ' ' 
 
 As a contrast to the above, it is interesting to 
 recall the preface that an anonymous friend con- 
 tributed to a volume of Crashaw's verse in the 
 seventeenth century, which, in his own words, "I 
 have impartially writ of this Learned young 
 Gent." Fearing that readers might not appre- 
 ciate his poetry at its true value, the friend writes, 
 "It were prophane but to mention here in the 
 Preface those under-headed Poets, Retainers to 
 seven shares and a halfe; Madrigall fellowes, 
 
132 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 whose onely business in verse, is to rime a poore 
 six-penny soule a Suburb sinner into hell; — May 
 such arrogant pretenders to Poetry vanish, with 
 their prodigious issue of tumorous heats, and 
 flashes of their adulterate braines, and for ever 
 after, may this our Poet fill up the better roome 
 of man. Oh! when the generall arraignment of 
 Poets shall be, to give an accompt of their higher 
 soules, with what a triumphant brow shall our 
 divine Poet sit above, and looke downe upon poore 
 Homer, Virgil, Horace, Claudian; &c. who had 
 amongst them the ill lucke to talke out a great part 
 of their gallant Genius, upon Bees, Dung, froggs, 
 and Gnats, &c. and not as himself here, upon Scrip- 
 tures, divine Graces, Martyrs and Angels." Our 
 prefatory friend set a pace that it is hopeless for 
 modern champions to follow, and they might as 
 well abandon the attempt. 
 
 James Elroy Flecker, the eldest child of the 
 Eev. Dr. Flecker, who is Head Master of an Eng- 
 lish school, was born on the fifth of November, 
 1884, in London. He spent five years at Trinity 
 College, Oxford, and later studied Oriental lan- 
 guages at Cains College, Cambridge. He went to 
 Constantinople in 1910. In that same year signs 
 of tuberculosis appeared, but after some months 
 at an English sanatorium, he seemed to be abso- 
 lutely well. In 1911 he was in Constantinople, 
 Smyrna, and finally in Athens, where he was mar- 
 ried to Miss Skiadaressi, a Greek. In March the 
 dreaded illness returned, and the rest of his short 
 
JAMES ELEOY FLECKEE 133 
 
 life was spent in the vain endeavour to recover his 
 health. He died in Switzerland, on the third of 
 January, 1915, at the age of thirty. "I cannot 
 help remembering,," says Mr. Squire, "that I first 
 heard the news over the telephone, and that the 
 voice which spoke was Eupert Brooke's." 
 
 He had published four books of verse and four 
 books of prose, leaving many poems, essays, short 
 stories, and two plays, in manuscript. All his 
 best poetry is now included in the Collected Poems 
 (1916). 
 
 Flecker had the Tennysonian habit of continu- 
 ally revising ; and in this volume we are permitted 
 to see some of the interesting results of the pro- 
 cess. I must say, however, that of the two ver- 
 sions of Tenebris Interlucentein, although the sec- 
 ond is called a "drastic improvement," I prefer 
 the earlier. Any poet might be proud of either. 
 
 Flecker liked the work of Mr. Yeats, of Mr. 
 Housman, of Mr. De La Mare ; and Eupert Brooke 
 was an intimate friend, for the two young men 
 were together at Cambridge. He wrote a sonnet 
 on Francis Thompson, though he was never af- 
 fected by Thompson's literary nianner. Indeed, 
 he is singularly free from the influence of any of 
 the modern poets. His ideas and his style are 
 his own ; he thought deeply on the art of writing, 
 and was given to eager and passionate discussion 
 of it with those who had his confidence. His 
 originality is the more remarkable when we re- 
 member his fondness for translating verse from a 
 
134 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 variety of foreign languages,, ancient and modern. 
 He was an excellent translator. His skill in this 
 art can only be inferred where we know nothing 
 at first hand of the originals ; but his version of 
 Goethe's immortal lyric is proof of his powers. 
 The only blemish — an unavoidable one— is "far" 
 and "father" in the last two lines. 
 
 Knowest thou the land where bloom the lemon trees? 
 
 And darkly gleam the golden oranges? 
 
 A gentle wind blows down from that blue sky; 
 
 Calm stands the myrtle and the laurel high. 
 
 Knowest thou the land? So far and fair! 
 
 Thou, whom I love, and I will wander there. 
 
 Knowest thou the house with all its rooms aglow, 
 And shining hall and columned portico? 
 The marble statues stand and look at me. 
 Alas, poor child, what have they done to thee? 
 Knowest thou the land? So far and fair. 
 My Guardian, thou and I will wander there. 
 
 Knowest thou the mountain with its bridge of cloud? 
 The mule plods warily: the white mists crowd. 
 Coiled in their caves the brood of dragons sleep; 
 The torrent hurls the rock from steep to steep. 
 Knowest thou the land? So far and fair. 
 Pather, away ! Our road is over there ! 
 
 Fletcher was more French than English in his 
 dislike of romanticism, sentimentalism, intimate, 
 and confessional poetry; and of course he was 
 strenuously opposed to contemporary standards 
 in so far as they put correct psychology above 
 beauty. Much contemporary verse reads and 
 sounds like undisciplined thinking out loud, where 
 
JAMES ELEOY FLECKER 135 
 
 each poet feels it imperative to tell tlie reader in 
 detail not only all his adventures, and passions, 
 but even the most minute whimsies and caprices. 
 When the result of this bosom-cleansing is real 
 poetry, it justifies itself ; but the method is the ex- 
 act opposite of Flecker's. His master was Keats,, 
 and in his own words, he wrote "with the single 
 intention of creating beauty. ' ' Austerity and ob- 
 jectivity were his ideals. 
 
 Strangely enough, he was able to state in a 
 new and more convincing way the doctrine of art 
 for art's sake. "However few poets have written 
 with a clear theory of art for art's sake, it is by 
 that theory alone that their work has been, or can 
 be, judged; — and rightly so if we remember that 
 art embraces all life and all humanity, and sees 
 in the temporary and fleeting doctrines of con- 
 servative or revolutionary only the human gran- 
 deur or passion that inspires them." 
 
 Perhaps the best noun that describes Flecker's 
 verse is brightness. He had a consumptive 's long- 
 ing for sunshine, and his sojourns on the Mediter- 
 ranean shores illuminate his pages. The follow- 
 ing poem is decidedly characteristic : 
 
 IN PH^ACIA 
 
 Had I that haze of streaming blue, 
 That sea below, the smnmer faced, 
 
 I'd work and weave a dress for you 
 And kneel to clasp it round your waist, 
 
 And broider with those burning bright 
 Threads of the Sun across the sea, 
 
136 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 And bind it with the silver light 
 That wavers in the olive tree. 
 
 Had I the gold that like a river 
 
 Pours through our garden, eve by eve, 
 Our garden that goes on for ever 
 
 Out of the world, as we believe; 
 Had I that glory on the vine 
 
 That splendour soft on tower and town, 
 I'd forge a crown of that sunshine. 
 
 And break before your feet the crown. 
 
 Through the great pinewood I have been 
 
 An hour before the lustre dies. 
 Nor have such forest-colours seen 
 
 As those that .glimmer in your eyes. 
 Ah, misty woodland, down whose deep 
 
 And twilight paths I love to stroll 
 To meadows quieter than sleep 
 
 And pools more secret than the soul! 
 
 Could I but steal that awful throne 
 
 Ablaze with dreams and songs and stars 
 Where sits Night, a man of stone. 
 
 On the frozen mountain spars 
 I'd cast him down, for he is old. 
 
 And set my Lady there to rule, 
 Gowned with silver, crowned with gold. 
 
 And in her eyes the forest pool. 
 
 It seems to me improbable that Flecker will be 
 forgotten; be was a real poet. But a remark 
 made of Tennyson is still more applicable to 
 Flecker. "He was an artist before be was a 
 poet." Even as a small boy, be bad astonish- 
 ing facility, but naturally wrote little worth pre- 
 serval. The Collected Poems show an extraordi- 
 nary command of bis instrument. He had the 
 
JAMES ELEOT FLECKEE 137 
 
 orthodox virtues of the orthodox poet — rime and 
 rhythm, cunning in words, skill in nature-painting, 
 imagination. The richness of his colouring and 
 the loveliness of his melodies make his verses a 
 delight to the senses. His mind was plentifully- 
 stored with classical authors, and he saw nature 
 alive with old gods and fairies. In one of his 
 most charming poems, Oah and Olive, he declares, 
 
 When I go down the Gloucester lanes 
 My friends are deaf and blind: 
 
 Fast as they turn their foolish eyes 
 The Msenads leap behind, 
 
 And when I hear the fire-winged feet, 
 They only hear the wind. 
 
 Have I not chased the fluting Pan, 
 Through Cranham's sober trees? 
 
 Have I not sat on Painswick Hill 
 With a nymph upon my knees. 
 
 And she as rosy as the dawn. 
 And nated as the breeze ? 
 
 His poetry is composed of sensations rather 
 than thoughts. What it lacks is intellectual con- 
 tent. A richly packed memory is not the same 
 thing as original thinking, even when the memo- 
 ries are glorified by the artist's own imagination. 
 Yet the death of this young man was a cruel loss 
 to English literature, for his mental development 
 would eventually have kept pace with his gift of 
 song. His cheerful Paganism would, I think, have 
 given place to something deeper and more fruit- 
 ful. Before he went to Constantinople, he had, 
 as it is a fashion for some modern Occidentals to 
 
138 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 have, a great admiration for Mohammedanism. 
 A friend reports a rather naive remark of his,, 
 "his intercourse with Mohammedans had led him 
 to find more good in Christianity than he had 
 previously suspected." I have sometimes won- 
 dered whether a prolonged residence among Mo- 
 hammedans might not temper the enthusiasm of 
 those who so loudly insist on the superiority of 
 that faith to Christianity. Mr. Santayana speaks 
 somewhere of "the unconquerable mind of the 
 East. ' ' Well, my guess is that this unconquerable 
 mind will some day be conquered by the Man of 
 Nazareth, just as I think He will eventually — 
 some centuries ahead — conquer even us. 
 
 Flecker died so soon after the opening of the 
 Great War that it is vain to surmise what the 
 effect of that struggle would have been upon his 
 soul. That it would have shaken him to the 
 depths — and perhaps given him the spiritual ex- 
 perience necessary for his further advance — seems 
 not improbable. One of his letters on the subject 
 contains the significant remark, "What a race of 
 deep-eyed and thoughtful men we shall have in 
 Europe — now that all those millions have been 
 baptized in fire!" 
 
 The last stanza of his poem A Sacred Dialogue 
 reads as follows: 
 
 Then the black cannons of the Lord 
 
 Shall wake crusading ghosts 
 And the Milky Way shall swing like a sword 
 
 When Jerusalem vomits its horde 
 
FLECKEE AND DE LA MAEE 139 
 
 On the Christmas Day preferred of the Lord, 
 The Christmas Day of the Hosts! 
 
 He appended a footnote in December, 1914, when 
 he was dying: "Originally written for Christ- 
 mas, 1912, and referring to the first Balkan War, 
 this poem contains in the last speech of Christ 
 words that ring like a prophecy of events that may 
 occur very soon." As I am copying his Note, 
 December, 1917, the English army is entering 
 Jerusalem. 
 
 Flecker was essentially noble-minded ; and with- 
 out any trace of conceit, felt the responsibility of 
 his talents. There is not an unworthy page in 
 the Collected Poems. In a memorable passage, 
 he stated the goal of poetry. "It is not the poet's 
 business to save man's soul, but to make it worth 
 saving." 
 
 Walter De La Mare, a close personal friend of 
 Rupert Brooke, came of Huguenot, English and 
 Scotch ancestry, and was born at Charlton, Kent, 
 on the twenty-fifth of April, 1873. He was edu- 
 cated at St. Paul's Cathedral Choir School. Al- 
 though known today exclusively as a poet, he has 
 written much miscellaneous prose — critical arti- 
 cles for periodicals, short stories, and a few plays. 
 His first poetry-book. Songs of Childhood, ap- 
 peared in 1902 ; in 1900, Poems; in 1910, The Re- 
 turn, which won the Edmond de Polignac prize; 
 The Listeners, which gave him a wide reputation, 
 appeared in 1912 ; Peacock Pie, in 1917, and Mot- 
 ley and Other Poems in 1918. When, in Novem- 
 
140 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 ber, 1916, the Howland Memorial Prize at Yale 
 University was formally awarded to the work of 
 Eupert Brooke, it was officially received in New 
 Haven by Walter De La Mare, who came from 
 England for the purpose. 
 
 If Flecker 's poems were written in a glare of 
 light, Mr. De La Mare's shy Muse seems to live 
 in shadow. It is not at aU the shadow of grief, 
 still less of bitterness, but rather the cool, grate- 
 ful shade of retirement. I can find no words any- 
 where that so perfectly express to my mind the 
 atmosphere of these poems as the language used 
 by Hawthorne to explain the lack of excitement 
 that readers would be sure to notice in his tales. 
 "They have the pale tint of flowers that blossom 
 in too retired a shade, — the coolness of a medita- 
 tive habit, which diffuses itself through the feel- 
 ing and observation of every sketch. Instead of 
 passion there is sentiment; and, even in what 
 purport to be pictures of actual life, we have al- 
 legory, not always so warmly dressed in its habili- 
 ments of flesh and blood as to be taken into the 
 reader's mind without a shiver. Whether from 
 lack of power, or an uncontrollable reserve, the 
 author's touches have often an effect of tame- 
 ness. . . . The book, if you would see anything 
 in it, requires to be read in the clear, brown, twi- 
 light atmosphere in which it was written; if 
 opened in the sunshine, it is apt to look exceed- 
 ingly like a volume of blank pages." 
 
 Hawthorne is naturally not popular today with 
 
WALTER DE LA MARE 141 
 
 readers whose sole acquaintance with the art of 
 the short story is gleaned from magazines that 
 adorn the stalls at railway-stations ; and to those 
 whose taste in poetry begins and ends with melo- 
 drama, who prefer the hoarse cry of animal pas- 
 sion to the still, sad music of humanity, it would 
 not be advisable to recommend a poem like The 
 Listeners, where the people are ghosts and the 
 sounds only echoes. Yet there are times when it 
 would seem that every one must weary of strident 
 voices, of persons shouting to attract attention, 
 of poets who capitalize both their moral and liter- 
 ary vices, of hawking advertisers of the latest 
 verse-novelties; then a poem like The Listeners 
 reminds us of Lindsay's bird, whose simple melody 
 is not defeated by the blatant horns. 
 
 Decidedly a poet must have both courage and 
 faith to hold himself so steadily aloof from the 
 competition of the market-place; to work with 
 such easy cheerfulness in his quiet comer; to re- 
 main so manifestly unaffected by the swift cur- 
 rents of contemporary verse. For fifteen years 
 he has gone on producing his own favourite kind 
 of poetry, dealing with children, with flowers, with 
 autumn and winter, with ghosts of memory, with 
 figures in literature, and has finally obtained a 
 respectable audience without once raising his 
 voice. He has written surprisingly little love 
 poetry; the notes of passion, as we are a,ccus- 
 tomed to hear them, seldom sound from his lute ; 
 nor do we hear the agonizing cries of doubt, re- 
 
142 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 morse, or despair. There is nothing turbulent 
 and nothing truculent; he has made no contribu- 
 tion to the literature of revolt. Yet many of his 
 poems make an irresistible appeal to our more 
 reflective moods ; and once or twice, his fancy, al- 
 ways winsome and wistful, rises to a height of 
 pure imagination, as in The Listeners — ^which I 
 find myself returning to muse over again and 
 again. 
 
 His studies of humanity — both from observa- 
 tion and from books — are descriptive rather than 
 dramatic. I do not know a contemporary poet 
 whose published works contain so few quotation 
 marks. The dramatic monologue, which Emer- 
 son back in the 'forties prophesied would be the 
 highest class of poetry in the immediate future 
 (which prophecy was fulfilled), does not interest 
 Mr. De La Mare ; maybe he feels that it has been 
 done so well that he prefers to let it alone. His 
 remarkable thirteen poems dealing with Shake- 
 spearean characters — ^where he attempts with con- 
 siderable success to pluck out the heart of the 
 mystery — are all descriptive. Perhaps the most 
 original and beautiful of these is 
 
 MERCUTIO 
 
 Along an avenue of almond-trees 
 
 Came three girls chattering of their sweethearts three. 
 
 And lo ! Mercutio, with Byronic ease, 
 
 Out of his philosophic eye cast all 
 
 A mere flow'r'd twig of thought, whereat. . . . 
 
 Three hearts fell still as when an air dies out 
 
 And Venus falters lonely o'er the sea. 
 
WALTER DE LA MARE 143 
 
 But when ■within the further mist of bloom 
 
 His step and form were hid, the smooth child Ann 
 
 Said, "La, and what eyes he had!" and Lucy said, 
 
 "How sad a gentleman!" and Katharine, 
 
 "I wonder, now, what mischief he was at." 
 
 And these three also April hid away. 
 
 Leaving the spring faint with Mercutio. 
 
 There are immense tracts of Shakespeare which 
 Walter De La Mare never could even have re- 
 motely imitated ; but I know of no poet today who 
 could approach the wonderful Qneen Mab speech 
 more successfully than he. 
 
 The same method of interpretative description 
 that he employs in dealing with Shakespearean 
 characters he uses repeatedly in making portraits 
 from life. One of the most vivid and delightful 
 of these is 
 
 OLD SUSAN 
 
 When Susan's work was done she'd sit. 
 With one fat guttering candle lit, 
 And window opened wide to win 
 The sweet night air to enter in ; 
 There, with a thumb to keep her place 
 She'd read, with stem and wrinkled face. 
 Her mild eyes gliding very slow 
 Across the letters to and fro. 
 While wagged the guttering candle flame 
 In the wind that through the window came. 
 And sometimes in the silence she 
 Would mumble a sentence audibly. 
 Or shake her head as if to say, 
 "You silly souls, to act this way!" 
 And never a sound from night I'd hear, 
 Unless some far-off cock crowed clear; 
 Or her old shuffling thumb should turn 
 
144 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 Another page; and rapt and stem, 
 
 Through her great glasses bent on me 
 
 She'd glance into reality; 
 
 And shake her round old silvery head, 
 
 With — "You ! — I thought you was in bed !" — 
 
 Only to tilt her book again, 
 
 And rooted in Romance remain. 
 
 I am afraid that Rupert Brooke could not have 
 written a poem like Old Susan; he would have 
 made her ridiculous and contemptible; he would 
 have accentuated physical defects so that she 
 would have been a repugnant, even an offensive, 
 figure. But Mr. De La Mare has the power — 
 possessed in the supreme degree by J. M. Barrie 
 — of taking just such a person as Old Susan, living 
 in a world of romance, and making us smile with 
 no trace of contempt and with no descent to pity. 
 One who can do this loves his fellow-men. 
 
 Poems like Old Susan prepare us for one of the 
 most happy exhibitions of Mr. De La Mare's tal- 
 ent—his verses written for and about children. 
 Every household ought to have that delightful 
 quarto, delightfully and abundantly illustrated, 
 called Peacock Pie: A Book of Rhymes. With 
 Illustrations by W. Heath Robinson. There is a 
 picture for each poem, and the combination de- 
 mands and will obtain an unconditional surrender. 
 
 If the poetry of James Flecker and Walter De 
 La Mare live after them, it will not be because 
 of sensational qualities, in matter or in manner. 
 Fancy is bred either in the heart or in the head 
 — and the best poetry should touch either one or 
 
D. H. LAWRENCE 145 
 
 the other or both. Mr. De La Mare owes his pres- 
 ent eminence simply to merit — his endeavour has 
 been to write just as well as he possibly could. 
 His limit has been downward, not upward. He 
 may occasionally strike over the heads of his 
 audience, for his aim is never low. 
 
 The poetry of D. H. Lawrence (born 1885) 
 erupts from the terrible twenties. In spite of his 
 school experience, he has never sent his mind to 
 school ; he hates discipline. He has an undeniable 
 literary gift, which has met — as it ought to — ^with 
 glad recognition. He has strength, he has ferv- 
 our, he has passion. But while his strength is 
 sometimes the happy and graceful play of rippling 
 muscles, it is often contortion. If Mr. De La 
 Mare may seem too delicate, too restrained, Mr. 
 Lawrence cares comparatively little for delicacy; 
 and the word restraint is not in his bright lexicon. 
 In other words, he is aggressively "modem." 
 He is one of the most skilful manipulators of free 
 verse — he can drive four horses abreast, and some- 
 how or other reach the goal. 
 
 He sees his own turbulent heart reflected storm- 
 i\j in every natural spectacle. He observes flow- 
 ers in an anti-Wordsworthian way. He mentions 
 with appreciation roses, lilies, snapdragons, but 
 to him they are all passion-flowers. And yet — if 
 he only knew it — his finest work is in a subdued 
 mood. He is a master of colouring — and I like his 
 quieter work as a painter better than his feverish, 
 hectic cries of desire. Despite his dialect poems, 
 
146 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 he is more successful at description than at drama. 
 I imagine Miss Harriet Monroe may think so too ; 
 it seems to me she has done well in selecting his 
 verses, to give three out of the five from his 
 colour-pieces, of which perhaps the best is 
 
 SERVICE OF ALL THE DEAD 
 
 Between the avenue of cypresses, 
 All in their scarlet capes and surplices 
 Of linen, go the chaunting choristers, 
 The priests in gold and black, the villagers. 
 
 And all along the path to the cemetery 
 The round dark heads of men crowd silently; 
 And black-scarfed faces of women-folk wistfully 
 Watch at the banner of death, and the mystery. 
 
 And at the foot of a grave a father stands 
 With sunken head and forgotten, folded hands; 
 And at the foot of a grave a mother kneels 
 With pale shut face, nor neither hears nor feels. 
 
 The coming of the chaunting choristers 
 Between the avenue of cypresses, 
 The silence of the many villagers. 
 The candle-flames beside the surplices. 
 
 (Remember the English pronunciation of "ceme- 
 tery" is not the common American one.) He is 
 surely better as a looker-on at life than when he 
 tries to present the surging passions of an aotor- 
 in-chief. Then his art is full of sound and fury, 
 and instead of being thrilled, we are, as Stevenson 
 said of Whitman's poorer poems, somewhat inde- 
 corously amused. All poets, I suppose, are 
 thrilled by their own work; they read it to them- 
 
D. H. LAWRENCE 147 
 
 selves with shudders of rapture; but it is only 
 when this frisson is felt by others than blood- 
 relatives that they may feel some reasonable as- 
 surance of success. The London Times quite 
 properly refuses to surrender to lines like these : 
 
 And if I never see her again? 
 
 I think, if they told me so, 
 
 I could convulse the heavens with my horror. 
 
 I think I could alter the frame of thiags in my agony. 
 
 I think I could break the System with my heart. 
 
 I think, in my convulsion, the skies would break. 
 
 He should change his gear from high to low; he 
 will never climb Parnassus on this speed, not even 
 with his mufiBer so manifestly open. 
 
 The Times also quotes without appreciation 
 from the same volume the following passage, 
 where the woman, looking back, stirs a biblical 
 reminiscence. 
 
 I have seen it, felt it in my mouth, my throat, my chest, my 
 belly. 
 
 Burning of powerful salt, burning, eating through my defence- 
 less nakedness, 
 
 I have been thrust into white sharp crystals, 
 
 Writhing, twisting, superpenetrated, 
 
 Ah, Lot's wife, Lot's wife! 
 
 The pillar of salt, the whirling, horrible column of salt, like 
 a waterspout 
 
 That has enveloped me! 
 
 Most readers may not need a whole pillar, but 
 they will surely take the above professions cum 
 grano salis. It is all in King Cambyses' vein; 
 and I would that we had Pistol to deliver it. I 
 
148 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 cite it here, not for the graceless task of showing 
 Mr. Lawrence at his worst, but because such stuff 
 is symptomatic of many of the very "new" poets, 
 who wander, as Turgenev expressed it, "aimless 
 but declamatory, over the face of our long-suffer- 
 ing mother earth. ' ' 
 
 John Drinkwater, bom on the first of June, 
 1882, has had varied experiences both in business 
 and in literature, and is at present connected with 
 the management of the Birmingham Eepertory 
 Theatre. Actively engaged in commercial life, 
 he has found time to publish a number of volumes 
 of poems, plays in verse, critical works in prose, 
 and a long string of magazine articles. He has 
 wisely collected in one volume — though I regret 
 the omission of Malvern Lyrics — the best of his 
 poems that had previously appeared in four sepa- 
 rate works, containing the cream of his production 
 from 1908 to 1914. His preface to this little book, 
 published in 1917, is excellent in its manly modesty. 
 "Apart from the Cromwell poem itself, the pres- 
 ent selection contains all that I am anxious to pre- 
 serve from those volumes, and there is nothing be- 
 fore 1908 which I should wish to be reprinted now 
 or at any time." One of the earlier books had 
 been dedicated to John Masefield, to whom in the 
 present preface the author pays an affectionate 
 compliment — "John Masefield, who has given a 
 poet's praise to work that I hope he likes half as 
 well as I like his. ' ' 
 
JOHN DEINKWATER 149 
 
 The first poem, Symbols, prepares the reader 
 for what is to follow,, though it is somewhat lack- 
 ing in the technique that is characteristic of most 
 of Mr. Drinkwater's verse. 
 
 I saw history in a poet's song, 
 
 In a river-reach and a gallows-hill, 
 In a bridal bed, and a secret wrong, 
 
 In a crown of thorns: in a daffodil. 
 
 I imagined measureless time in a day, 
 
 And starry space in a wagon-road, 
 And the treasure of all good harvests lay 
 
 In the single seed that the sower sowed. 
 
 My garden-wind had driven and havened again 
 All ships that ever had gone to sea. 
 
 And I saw the glory of all dead men 
 
 In the shadow that went by the side of me. 
 
 The West of England looms large in contem- 
 porary poetry. A. E. Housman, John Masefield, 
 W. W. Gibson, J. E. Flecker have done their best 
 to celebrate its quiet beauty ; and some of the finest 
 work of Mr. Drinkwater is lovingly devoted to 
 these rural scenes. We know how Professor 
 Housman and John Masefield regard Bredon Hill 
 — another tribute to this ' ' calm acclivity, salubri- 
 ous spot" is paid in Mr. Drinkwater's cheerful 
 song, At Grafton. The spirit of his work in gen- 
 eral is the spirit of health — ^take life as it is, and 
 enjoy it. It is the open-air verse of broad, wind- 
 swept English counties. Its surest claim to dis- 
 tinction lies in its excellent, finished workmanship 
 
150 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 — he is a sound craftsman. But he has not yet 
 shown either sufficient originali'ty or sufficient in- 
 spiration to rise from the better class of minor 
 poets. His verse-drama, The Storm, which was 
 produced in Birmingham in 1915, shows strong re- 
 semblances to the one-act plays of Mr. Gibson and 
 is not otherwise impressive. 
 
 William Henry Davies, the Welsh poet, exhibits 
 in his half-dozen miniature volumes an extraor- 
 dinary variety of subjects. Everything is grist. 
 He was born of Welsh parentage in Monmouth- 
 shire on the twentieth of April, 1870. He became 
 an American tramp, and practised this interesting 
 profession six years ; he made eight or nine trips 
 to England on cattle-ships, working his passage; 
 he walked about England selling pins and needles. 
 He remarks that "he sometimes varied this life 
 by singing hymns in the street." At the age of 
 thirty-four he became a poet, and he insists — not 
 without reason — ^that he has been one ever since. 
 Readers may be at times reminded of the manner 
 of John Davidson, but after all, Mr. Davies is as 
 independent in his poetry as he used to be on the 
 road. 
 
 Sometimes his verse is banal — as in the advice 
 To a Workivfj Blaii. But oftener his imagination 
 plays on familiar scenes in town and country ^Yith. 
 a lambent flame, illuminating and glorifying com- 
 mon objects. He has the heart of the child, and 
 tries to see life from a child's clear eyes. 
 
W. H. DAVIES 151 
 
 THE TWO FLOCKS 
 
 Where are you going to now, white sheep, 
 
 Walking the green hill-side; 
 To join that whiter flock on top, 
 
 And share their pride? 
 
 Stay where you are, you silly sheep : 
 
 When you arrive up there, 
 You'll find that whiter flock on top 
 
 Clouds in the air! 
 
 Yet much of his poetry springs from his wide 
 knowledge and experience of life. An original 
 defence of the solitary existence is seen in Death's 
 Game, although possibly the grapes are sour. 
 
 Death can but play one game with me — 
 
 If I do live alone; 
 He cannot strike me a foul blow' 
 
 Through a beloved one. 
 
 Today he takes my neighbour's wife, 
 
 And leaves a little child 
 To lie upon his breast and cry 
 
 Like the Night-wind, so wild. 
 
 And every hour its voice is heard — 
 
 Tell me where is she gone! 
 Death cannot play that game with me — 
 
 If I do live alone. 
 
 The feather-weight pocket-volumes of verse that 
 this poet puts forth, each containing a crop of tiny 
 poems — have an excellent virtue — they are inter- 
 esting, good companions for a day in the country. 
 There is always sufficient momentum in page 28 
 to carry you on to page 29 — something that cannot 
 be said of all books. 
 
152 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 English, literature suffered a loss in the death 
 of Edward Thomas, who was killed in France on 
 the ninth of April, 1917. He was bom on the 
 third of March, 1878, and had published a long list 
 of literary critiques, biographies, interpretations 
 of nature, and introspective essays. He took 
 many solitary journeys afoot ; his books The South 
 Country, The Heart of England, and others, show 
 both observation and reflection. Although Eng- 
 lish by birth and education, he had in his veins 
 Welsh and Spanish blood. 
 
 In 1917 a tiny volume of his poems appeared. 
 These are unlike any other verse of the past or 
 present. They cannot be called great poetry, but 
 they are original, imaginative, whimsical, and re- 
 veal a rich personality. Indeed we feel in read- 
 ing these rimes that the author was greater than 
 anything he wrote or could write. The difficulty 
 in articulation comes apparently from a mind so 
 full that it cannot run freely off the end of a pen. 
 
 Shyness was undoubtedly characteristic of the 
 man, as it often is of minute observers of nature. 
 I am not at all surprised to learn from one who 
 knew him of his "temperamental melancholy." 
 He was austere and aloof ; but exactly the type of 
 mind that would give all he had to those who pos- 
 sessed his confidence. It must have been a privi- 
 lege to know him intimately. I have said that his 
 poems resemble the work of no other poet; this 
 is true ; but there is a certain kinship between him 
 and Robert Frost, indicated not only in the verses. 
 
EDWARD THOMAS 153 
 
 but in the fact that his book is dedicated to the 
 American. 
 
 His death accentuates the range of the dragnet 
 of war. This intellectual, quiet, introspective, 
 slightly ironical temperament would seem almost 
 ideally unfitted for the trenches. Yet, although 
 no soldier by instinct, and having a family de- 
 pendent upon his writings for support, he gave 
 himself freely to the Great Cause. He never 
 speaks in his verses of his own sacrifice, and in- 
 deed says little about the war; but the first poem 
 in the volume expresses the universal call. 
 
 Rise up, rise up, 
 
 And, as the trumpet blowing 
 
 Chases the dreams of men. 
 
 As the dawn glowing 
 
 The stars that left unlit 
 
 The land and water. 
 
 Rise up and scatter 
 
 The dew that covers 
 
 The print of last night's lovers — 
 
 Scatter it, scatter it ! 
 
 While you are listening 
 
 To the clear horn, 
 
 Forget, men, everything 
 
 On this earth newborn. 
 
 Except that it is lovelier 
 
 Than any mysteries. 
 
 Open your eyes to the air 
 
 That has washed the eyes of the stars 
 
 Through all the dewy night: 
 
 Up with the light. 
 
 To the old wars; 
 
 Arise, arise! 
 
154 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 In reading Edward Thomas, Rupert Brooke, Alan 
 Seeger, we recognize how much greater were the 
 things they sacrificed than the creature comforts 
 ordinarily emphasized in the departure from home 
 to the trenches ; these men gave up their imagina- 
 tion. 
 
 A thoroughly representative poem by Edward 
 Thomas is Cock-Crow; beauty of conception 
 mingled with the inevitable touch of homeliness 
 at the end. 
 
 Out of the wood of thoughts that grows by night 
 To be cut down by the sharp axe of light, — 
 Out of the night, two cocks together crow. 
 Cleaving the darkness with a silver blow: 
 And bright before my eyes twin trumpeters stand, 
 Heralds of splendour, one at either hand. 
 Each facing each as in a coat of arms; 
 The milkers lace their boots up at the farms. 
 
 This is his favourite combination, seen on every 
 page of his work, — fancy and fact. 
 
 Another poet in khaki who writes powerful and 
 original verse is Robert Nichols (bom 1893), an 
 Oxford man who has already produced two vol- 
 umes — Invocation, and, in 1918, Ardours and En- 
 durances. Accompanying the second is a por- 
 trait made in 1915, exhibiting the face of a 
 dreamy-looking boy. No one who reads the pages 
 of this book can doubt the author's gift. In his 
 trench-poetry he somehow manages to combine 
 the realism of Barbusse with an almost holy touch 
 of imagination; and some of the most beautiful 
 pieces are manly laments for friends killed in 
 
ROBERT NICHOLS 155 
 
 battle. He was himself severely wounded. His 
 poems of strenuous action are mostly too long to 
 quote; occasionally lie writes in a more quiet mood 
 of contemplation. 
 
 THE FULL HEART 
 
 Alone on the shore in the pause of the nighttime 
 I stand and I hear the long wind blow light ; 
 I view the constellations quietly, quietly burning ; 
 I hear the wave fall in the hush of the night. 
 
 Long after I am dead, ended this bitter journey. 
 Many another whose heart holds no light 
 Shall your solemn sweetness hush, awe, and comfort, 
 my companions. Wind, Waters, Stars, and Night. 
 
 Other Oxford poets from the front are Sieg- 
 fried Sassoon, ■ Robert Graves and Willoughby 
 Weaving, whose two volumes The Star Fields 
 and The Bubble are as original in their way as 
 the work of Mr. Nichols, though inferior in beauty 
 of expression. Mn Weaving was invalided home 
 in 1915, and his first book has an introduction by 
 Robert Bridges. In The Bubble (1917) there are 
 many poems so deeply meditative that their full 
 force does not reach one until after repeated read- 
 ings. He has also a particular talent for the last 
 line. 
 
 TO 
 
 (Winter 1916) 
 
 Thou lover of lire, how cold is it in the grave ? 
 Would I could bring thee fuel and light thee a fire as of old ! 
 Alas ! how I think of thee there, shivering out in the cold, 
 Till my own bright fire lacketh the heat which it gave ! 
 
156 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POBTEY 
 
 Oh, Would I could see thee again, as in days gone by, 
 Sitting hands over the lire, or poking it to a bright blaze 
 And clearing the cloggy ash from the bars in thy careful ways ! 
 Oh, art thou the more cold or here by the fire am I? 
 
 B. H. Blackwell, tlie Oxford publisher, seems 
 to have made a good many "finds"; besides pro- 
 ducing some of the work of Mr. Nichols and Mr. 
 Weaving — ^both poets now have American pub- 
 lishers as well — the four volumes Oxford Verse, 
 running from 1910 to 1917, contain many excellent 
 things. And in addition to these, there are orig- 
 inal adventures in the art of poetry, sometimes 
 merely bizarre, but interesting as experiments, 
 exhibited in the two volumes Wheels 1916, and 
 Wheels 1917, and also in the books called Initi- 
 ates: a Series of Poetry hy Proved Hands. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE IRISH POETS 
 
 Irish poetry a part of English Literature — common-sense 
 the basis of romanticism — ^misapprehension of the poetic tem- 
 perament — William Butler Yeats — his education — his devotion 
 to art — his theories — his love poetry — resemblance to Maeter- 
 linck — the Ijrrical element paramount — the psaltery — pure 
 rather than applied poetry — John M. Synge — his mentality — 
 his versatility — a terrible personality — ^his capacity for hatred 
 — his subjectivity — his interesting Preface — brooding on death 
 — A. E. — The Master of the island — his sincerity and in- 
 fluence — disembodied spirits— his mysticism — homesickness — 
 true optimism^James Stephens — poet and novelist — ^realism 
 and fantasy — ^Padraic Colum — Francis Ledwidge — Susan 
 Mitchell — Thomas MacDonagh — Joseph Campbell — Seumas 
 0' Sullivan — Herbert Trench — Maurice Francis Egan — Norreys 
 Jephson O'Conor — F. Carlin — The advance in Ireland. 
 
 In what I have to say of the work of the Irish 
 poets, I am thinking of it solely as a part of Eng- 
 lish literature. I have in mind no political bias 
 whatever, though I confess I have small admira- 
 tion for extremists. During the last forty years 
 Irishmen have written mainly in the English lan- 
 guage, which assures to what is good in their com- 
 positions an influence bounded only by the dimen- 
 sions of the earth. Great creative writers are 
 such an immense and continuous blessing to the 
 world that the locality of their birth pales in com- 
 parison with the glory of it, a glory in which we 
 
 157 
 
158 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 all profit. We need original writers in America; 
 but I had rather have a star of the first magnitude 
 appear in London than a star of lesser power ap- 
 pear in Los Angeles. Every one who writes good 
 English contributes something to English litera- 
 ture and is a benefactor to English-speaking peo- 
 ple. An Irish or American literary aspirant will 
 be rated not according to his local flavour or fer- 
 vour, but according to his ability to write the Eng- 
 lish language. The language belongs to Ireland 
 and to America as much as it belongs to England ; 
 excellence in its command is the only test by which 
 Irish, American, Canadian, South African, Ha- 
 waiian and Australian poets and novelists will be 
 judged. The more difficult the test, the stronger 
 the appeal to national pride. 
 
 In a recent work, called The Celtic Dawn, 1 
 found this passage: "The thesis of their con- 
 tention is that modern English, the English of 
 contemporary literature, is essentially an im- 
 poverished language incapable of directly express- 
 ing thought. ' ' I am greatly unimpressed by such 
 a statement. The chief reason why there is really 
 a Celtic Dawn, or a Celtic Renaissance, is because 
 Irishmen like Synge, Yeats, Russell and others 
 have succeeded in writing English so well that 
 they have attracted the attention of the world. 
 
 Ireland has never contributed to English litera- 
 ture a poet of the first class. By a poet of the first 
 class I mean one of the same grade with the lead- 
 ing half-dozen British poets of the nineteenth cen- 
 
THE lEISH POETS 159 
 
 tury. This dearth of great Irish poets is the more 
 noticeable when we think of Ireland's contribu- 
 tions to English prose and to English drama. 
 Possibly, if one had prophecy rather than history 
 to settle the question, one might predict that 
 Irishmen would naturally write more and better 
 poetry than Englishmen ; for the common supposi- 
 tion is that the poetic temperament is romantic, 
 sentimental, volatile, reckless. If this were true, 
 then the lovable, careless, impulsive Irish would 
 completely outclass in original poetry the sensible, 
 steady-headed, cautious Englishman. What are 
 the facts about the so-called poetic temperament? 
 Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Gray, Words- 
 worth, Keats, Tennyson, Browning, Arnold, were 
 in character, disposition, and temperament pre- 
 cisely the opposite of what is superficially sup- 
 posed to be " poetic. ' ' Some of them were deeply 
 erudite ; all of them were deeply thoughtful. They 
 were clear-headed, sensible men — in fact, common 
 sense was the basis of their mental life. And no 
 one can read the letters of Byron without seeing 
 how well supplied he was with the shrewd common 
 sense of the Englishman. He was more selfish 
 than any one of the men enumerated above — but 
 he was no fool. There is nothing inconsistent in 
 his being at once the greatest romantic poet and 
 the greatest satirist of his age. His masterpiece, 
 Don Juan, is the expression of a nature at the 
 farthest possible remove from sentimentality. 
 And the author of Faust was remarkable among 
 
160 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 all the children of men for his poise, balance, calm 
 — in other words, for common sense. 
 
 It is by no accident that the British — whom for- 
 eigners delight to call stodgy and slow-witted, — 
 have produced more high-class poetry than any 
 other nation in the history of the world. English 
 literature is instinctively romantic, as French 
 literature is instinctively classic. The glory of 
 French literature is prose; the glory of English 
 literature is poetry. 
 
 As the tallest tree must have the deepest roots, 
 so it would seem that the loftiest edifices of verse 
 must have the deepest foundations. Certainly 
 one of the many reasons why American poetry is 
 so inferior to British is because our roots do not 
 go down sufficiently deep. Great poetry does not 
 spring from natures too volatile, too susceptible, 
 too easily swept by gusts of emotion. Landor was 
 one of the m^ost violent men we have on record; 
 he was a prey to uncontrollable outbursts of rage, 
 caused by trivial vexations ; but his poetry aimed 
 at cold, classical correctness. In comparison with 
 Landor, Tennyson's reserve was almost glacial — 
 yet out of it bloomed many a gorgeous garden 
 of romance. Splendid imaginative masterpieces 
 seem to require more often than not a creative 
 mind marked by sober reason, logical processes, 
 orderly thinking. 
 
 John Morley, who found the management of 
 Ireland more than a handful, though he loved Ire- 
 land and the Irish with an affection greater than 
 
THE lEISH POETS 161 
 
 that felt by any other Englishman of his time, has, 
 in his Recollections, placed on opposite pages — all 
 the more striking to me because unintentional — 
 illuminating testimony to the difference between 
 the Irish and the British temperament. And this 
 testimony supports the point I am trying to make 
 — that the "typical" logicless, inconsequential 
 Irish mind, so winsome and so exasperating, is not 
 the kind of brain to produce permanent poetry. 
 
 A peasant was in the dock for a violent assa,ult. The clerk 
 read the indictment with all its legal jargon. The prisoner to 
 the warder: "What's all that he says?" Warder: "He says 
 ye hit Pat Curry with yer spade on the side of his head." 
 Prisoner: "Bedad an' I did." Warder: "Then plade not 
 guilty." This dialogue, loud and in the full hearing of the 
 court. 
 
 Eead Wordsworth's two poems on Bums; kind, merciful, 
 steady, glowing, manly they are, with some strong phrases, 
 good lines, and human feeling all through, winding up in two 
 stanzas at the close. These are among the pieces that make 
 Wordsworth a poet to live with; he repairs the daily wear 
 and tear, puts back what the fret of the day has rubbed thin 
 or rubbed off, sends us forth in the morning whole. 
 
 Robert Browning, whose normality in appear- 
 ance and conversation pleased sensible folk and 
 shocked idolaters,, summed up in two stanzas the 
 difference between the popular conception of a 
 poet and the real truth. One might almost take 
 the first stanza as representing the Irish and the 
 second the English temperament. 
 
 "Touch him ne'er so lightly, into song he broke: 
 Soil so quick-receptive, — not one feather-seed. 
 Not one flower-dust fell but straight its fall awoke 
 
162 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 Vitalising virtue: song would song succeed 
 Sudden as spontaneous — prove a poet-soul!" 
 
 Indeed? 
 Rock's the song-soil rather, surface hard and bare: 
 Sun and dew their mildness, storm and frost their rage 
 Vainly both expend, — few flowers awaken there : 
 Quiet in its cleft broods — ^what the after age 
 Knows and names a pine, a nation's heritage. 
 
 People who never grow up may have a certain 
 kind of fascination, but they will not write great 
 poetry. It is exactly the other way with creative 
 artists; they grow up faster than the average. 
 The maturity of Keats is astonishing. . . . Mr. 
 Yeats 's wonderful lamentation, September 1913, 
 that sounds like the wailing of the wind, actually 
 gives us a reason why Irishmen are getting the 
 attention of the world in poetry, as well as in fic- 
 tion and drama. 
 
 What need you, being come to sense. 
 But fumble in a greasy till 
 And add the halfpence to the pence 
 And prayer to shivering prayer, until 
 You have dried the marrow from the bone; 
 For men were bom to pray and save. 
 Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, 
 It's with O'Leary in the grave. 
 
 Yet they were of a different kind. 
 The names that stilled your childish play 
 They have gone about the world like wind, 
 But little time had they to pray 
 For whom the hangman's rope was spun, 
 And what, God help us, could they save; 
 Romantic Ireland's dead and gone. 
 It's with O'Leary in the grave. 
 
THE lEISH POETS 163 
 
 Was it for this the wild geese spread 
 The grey -wing upon every tide ; 
 Tor this that all that blood was shed, 
 For this Edward Fitzgerald died, 
 And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone, 
 All that delirium of the brave; 
 Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, 
 It's with O'Leary in the grave. 
 
 Yet could we turn the years again. 
 And call those exiles as they were, 
 In all their loneliness and pain 
 You'd cry "some woman's yellow hair 
 Has maddened every mother's son :" 
 They weighed so lightly what they gave. 
 But let them be, they're dead and gone, 
 They're with O'Leary in the grave. 
 
 William Butler Yeats has done more for Eng- 
 lish poetry than any other Irishman, for he is the 
 greatest poet in the English language that Ireland 
 has ever produced. He is a notable figure in con- 
 temporary literature, having made additions to 
 verse, prose and stage-plays. He has by no means 
 obliterated Clarence Mangan, but he has surpassed 
 him. 
 
 Mr. Yeats was bom at Dublin, on the thirteenth 
 of June, 1865. His father was an honour man at 
 Trinity College, taking the highest distinction in 
 Political Economy. After practising law, he be- 
 came a painter, which profession he still adorns. 
 The future poet studied art for three years, but 
 when twenty-one years old definitely devoted him- 
 self to literature. In addition to his original 
 work, one of his foremost services to humanity was 
 
164 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 Ms advice to that strange genius, John Synge — 
 for it was partly owing to the influence of his 
 friend that Synge became a creative writer, and 
 he had, alas! little time to lose. 
 
 Mr. Yeats published his first poem in 1886. 
 Since that date, despite his preoccupation with the 
 management of the Abbey Theatre, he has pro- 
 duced a long list of works in verse and prose, de- 
 cidedly unequal in merit, but shining with the light 
 of a luminous mind. 
 
 From the first, Mr. Yeats has seemed to realize 
 that he could serve Ireland best by making beauti- 
 ful and enduring works of art, rather than by any 
 form of political agitation. This is well; for de- 
 spite the fact that a total ineptitude for statesman- 
 ship seldom prevents the enthusiast from issuing 
 and spreading dogmatic propaganda, a merely 
 elementary conception of the principle of division 
 of labour should make us all rejoice when the artist 
 confines himseK to art. True artists are scarce 
 and precious ; and although practical men of busi- 
 ness often regard them as superfluous luxuries, 
 the truth is that we cannot live without them. As 
 poet and dramatist, Mr. Yeats has done more for 
 his country than he could have accomplished in 
 any other way. 
 
 Never was there more exclusively an artist. He 
 writes pure, not applied poetry. I care little for 
 his theories of symbolism, magic and what not. 
 Poets are judged not by their theories, not by the 
 "schools" to which they give passionate adher- 
 
THE IRISH POETS 165 
 
 ence, but simply and solely by the quality of their 
 work. No amount of theory, no correctness of 
 method^ no setting up of new or defence of old 
 standards, no elevated ideals can make a poet if 
 he have not the divine gift. Theories have hardly 
 more effect on the actual value of his poetry than 
 the colour of the ink in which he writes. The rea- 
 son why it is interesting to read what Mr. Yeats 
 says about his love of magic and of symbols is not 
 because there is any truth or falsehood in these 
 will-o'-the-wisps, but because he is such an artist 
 that even when he writes in prose, his style is so 
 beautiful, so harmonious that one is forced to 
 listen. Literary art has enormous power in pro- 
 pelling a projectile of thought. I do not doubt 
 that the chief reason for the immense effect of 
 such a philosophy as that of Schopenhauer or that 
 of Nietzsche is because each man was a literary 
 artist — indeed I think both were greater writers 
 than thinkers. A good thing this is for their fame, 
 for art lasts longer than thought. The fashion of 
 a man's thought may pass away; his knowledge 
 and his ideas may lose their stamp, either because 
 they prove to be false or because they become uni- 
 versally current. Everybody believes Copernicus, 
 but nobody reads him. Yet when a book, no mat- 
 ter how obsolete in thought, is marked by great 
 beauty of style, it lives forever. Consider the case 
 of Sir Thomas Browne. Art is the great pre- 
 servative. 
 Mr. Yeats has a genius for names and titles. 
 
166 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 His names, like those of Bossetti's, are sweet sym- 
 phonies. The Wind Among the Reeds, The 
 Shadowy Waters, The Secret Rose, The Land of 
 Heart's Desire, The Island of Statues are poems 
 in themselves, and give separate pleasure like an 
 overture without the opera. Perhaps it is not too 
 fanciful to observe that The Wind Among the 
 Reeds suggests better than any other arrange- 
 ment of words the lovely minor melodies of our 
 poet, while The Shadowy Waters gives exactly 
 the picture that comes into one 's mind in thinking 
 of his poems. There is an extraordinary fluidity 
 in his verse, like running water under the shade of 
 overhanging branches. One feels that Mr. Yeats 
 loves these titles, and chooses them with affection- 
 ate solicitude, like a father naming beautiful chil- 
 dren. 
 
 The love poetry of Mr. Yeats, like the love 
 poetry of Poe, is swept with passion, but the pas- 
 sion is mingled with unutterable reverence. It is 
 unlike much modern love poetry in its spiritual 
 exaltation. Just as manners have become more 
 free, and intimacies that once took months to de- 
 velop, now need only minutes, so much contem- 
 porary verse-tribute to women is so detailed, so 
 bold, so cock-sure, that the elaborate compliments 
 only half-conceal a sneer. In all such work love 
 is bom of desire — its sole foundation — and hence 
 is equally short-lived and fleeting. In the poems 
 of Mr. Yeats, desire seems to follow rather than 
 
THE lEISH POETS 167 
 
 to precede love. Love thus takes on, as it ought 
 to, something of the beauty of holiness. 
 
 Fasten your hair with a golden pin, 
 And bind up every wandering tress; 
 I bade my heart build these poor rhymes : 
 It Worked at them, day out, day in. 
 Building a sorrowful loveliness 
 Out of the battles of old times. 
 
 You need but lift a pearl-pale hand. 
 And bind up your long hair and sigh; 
 And all men's hearts must bum and beat; 
 And candle-like foam on the dim sand, 
 And stars climbing the dew-dropping sky. 
 Live but to light your passing feet. 
 
 A still more characteristic love-poem is the one 
 which gleams with the symbols of the cloths of 
 heaven. 
 
 Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, 
 Enwrought with golden and silver light. 
 The blue and the dim and the dark cloths 
 Of night and light and the halflight, 
 I would spread the cloths under your feet ; 
 But I, being poor, have only my dreams; 
 I have spread my dreams under your feet; 
 Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. 
 
 In mysticism, in symbolism, and in the quality 
 of his imagination, Mr. Yeats of course reminds us 
 of Maeterlinck. He has the same twilit atmos- 
 phere, peopled with elusive dream-footed figures, 
 that make no more noise than the wings of an owl. 
 He is of imagination all compact. He is neither a 
 teacher nor a prophet ; he seems to turn away from 
 
168 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 the real sorrows of life, yes, even from its real 
 joys, to dwell in a world of his own creation. He 
 invites us thither, if we care to go ; and if we go 
 not, we cannot understand either his art or his 
 ideas. But if we wander with him in the shadowy 
 darkness, like the lonely man in Titanic alleys ac- 
 companied only by Psyche, we shall see strange 
 visions. We may be led to the door of a legended 
 tomb; we may be led along the border of dim 
 waters ; but we shall live for a time in the realm of 
 Beauty, and be the better for the experience, even 
 though it resemble nothing in the town and coun- 
 try that we know. 
 
 Mr. Yeats, like Browning, writes both lyrical 
 poems and dramas; but he is at the opposite re- 
 move from Browning in everything except the gift 
 of song. Browning was so devoted to the dra- 
 matic aspect of art, that he carried the drama 
 even into its seemingly contradictory form, the 
 lyric. Every lyric is a little one-act play, and he 
 called them dramatic lyrics. Mr. Yeats, on the 
 other hand, is so essentially a lyric poet, that in- 
 stead of writing dramatic lyrics, he writes lyric 
 dramas. Even his stage-plays are primarily 
 lyrical. 
 
 Those who are interested in Mr. Yeats 's theory 
 of speaking, reciting, or chanting poetry to the 
 psaltery should read his book, Ideas of Good and 
 Evil, which contains some of his most significant 
 articles, of faith, written in shining prose. Mr. 
 Yeats cannot write on any subject without illu- 
 
THE IRISH POETS 169 
 
 minating it by the light of his own imagination; 
 and I find his essays in criticism full of original 
 thought — the result of years of brooding reflection. 
 In these short pieces his genius is as clear as it is 
 in his poems. 
 
 He is, in fact, a master of English. His latest 
 work, with its musical title, Per Arnica Silentia 
 Lunae (1918), has both in spirit and form some- 
 thing of the ecstasy and quaint beauty of Sir 
 Thomas Browne. I had snpposed that such a 
 style as that displayed in Urn-Burial was a lost 
 art; but Mr. Yeats comes near to possessing its 
 secret. This book is like a deep pool ia its lim- 
 pidity and mystery ; no man without genius could 
 have written it. I mean to read it many times, for 
 there are pages that I am not sure that I under- 
 stand. One looks into its depths of suggestion as 
 one looks into a clear but very deep lake ; one can 
 see far down, but not to the bottom of it, which 
 remains mysterious. He invites his own soul, but 
 there is no loafing. Indeed his mind seems preter- 
 naturally active, as in a combination of dream and 
 cerebration. 
 
 We make out of the quarrel ■with others, rhetoric, but of 
 the quarrel with ourselves, poetry. Unlike the rhetoricians, 
 who get a confident voice from remembering the crowd they 
 have Won or may win, we sing amid our uncertainty; and, 
 smitten even in the presence of the most high beauty by the 
 knowledge of our solitude, our rhythm shudders. I think, 
 too, that no fine poet, no matter how disordered his life, has 
 ever, even in his mere life, had pleasure for his end. . . . The 
 other self, the anti-self or antithetical self, as one may choose 
 
170 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 to name it, comes but to those who are no longer deceived, 
 "whose passion is reality. The sentimentalists are practical 
 men who believe in money, in position, in a marriage beU, and 
 whose understanding of happiness is to be so busy whether at 
 work or at play, that all is forgotten but the momentary aim. 
 They will find their pleasure in a cup that is filled from 
 Lethe's wharf, and for the awakening, for the vision, for the 
 revelation of reality, tradition offers us a different word — 
 ecstasy. . . . We must not make a false faith by hiding from 
 our thoughts the causes of doubt, for faith is the highest 
 achievement of the human intellect, the only gift man can make 
 to Grod, and therefore it must be offered in sincerity. Neither 
 must we create, by hiding ugliness, a false beauty as our offer- 
 ing to the world. He only can create the greatest imaginable 
 beauty who has endured all imaginable pangs, for only when 
 we have seen and foreseen what we dread shall we be rewarded 
 by that dazzling unforeseen wing-footed wanderer. 
 
 I admire his devotion to the art of poetry. He 
 will not turn Pegasus into a dray-horse, and make 
 him haul cart-loads of political or moral propa- 
 ganda. In his fine apologia, The Cutting of an 
 Agate, he states and restates his creed: "Litera- 
 ture decays when it no longer makes more beauti- 
 ful, or more vivid, the language which unites it to 
 all life, and when one finds the criticism of the 
 student, and the purpose of the reformer, and the 
 logic of the man of science, where there should 
 have been the reveries of the common heart, en- 
 nobled into some raving Lear or unabashed Don 
 Quixote. ... I have been reading through a 
 bundle of German plays, and have found every- 
 where a desire not to express hopes and alarms 
 common to every man that ever came into the 
 
THE lEISH POETS 171 
 
 world, but politics or social passion, a veiled or 
 open propaganda. . . . If Homer were alive today, 
 he would only resist, after a deliberate struggle, 
 the temptation to find his subject not in Helen's 
 beauty, that every man has desired, nor in the 
 wisdom and endurance of Odysseus that has been 
 the desire of every woman that has come into the 
 world, but in what somebody would describe, per- 
 haps, as 'the inevitable contest,' arising out of 
 economic causes, between the country-places and 
 small towns on the one hand, and, upon the other, 
 the great city of -Troy, representing one knows 
 not what ' tendency to centralization. ' ' ' 
 
 In other words, if I understand him correctly, 
 Mr. Yeats believes that in writing pure rather 
 than applied poetry, he is not turning his back on 
 great issues to do filigree work, but is merely turn- 
 ing aside from questions of temporary import to 
 that which is fixed and eternal, life itself. 
 
 John Millington Synge was born near Dublin' on 
 the sixteenth of April, 1871, and died in Dublin on 
 the twenty-fourth of March, 1909. It is a curious 
 thing that the three great Irishmen of the Celtic 
 renaissance — the only men who were truly in- 
 spired by genius — originally studied another form 
 of art than literature. Mr. Yeats studied painting 
 for years ; A. E. is a painter of distinction ; Synge 
 was an accomplished musician before he became a 
 man of letters. There is not the slightest doubt 
 that the effect of these sister arts upon the literary 
 
172 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 work of the Great Three is pervasive and power- 
 ful. The books of Mr. Yeats and Mr. Eussell are 
 full of word-pictures ; and the rhythm of Synge 's 
 strange prose, which Mr. Ernest Boyd ingeniously 
 compares with Dr. Hyde's translations, is full of 
 harmonies. 
 
 Dr. Hyde has not only witnessed a new and won- 
 derful literary revival in his country, but he has 
 the satisfaction of knowing that he is vitally con- 
 nected with its birth and bloom. 
 
 Synge had the greatest mental endowment of all 
 the Irish writers of his time. He had an amaz- 
 ingly powerful mind. At Trinity College he took 
 prizes in Hebrew and in Irish, and at the same time 
 gained a scholarship in harmony and counter- 
 point at the Boyal Irish Academy of Music. As a 
 boy, ' * he knew the note and plumage of every bird, 
 and when and where they were to be found. ' ' As 
 a man, he could easily have mastered the note of 
 every human being, as in addition to his knowledge 
 of ancient languages, he seems to have become 
 proficient in German, French, and Italian with 
 singular speed and ease. He was an excellent 
 performer on the piano, flute, and violin, did con- 
 juring tricks, and delighted the natives of the Aran 
 Islands with his penny whistle. He must have had 
 a positive genius for concentration, obtaining a 
 command over anything to which he cared to de- 
 vote his attention. Mr. Yeats found him in that 
 ramshackle old Hotel Comeille in the Latin Quar- 
 
THE lEISH POETS 173 
 
 ter, busily writing literary criticism in French and 
 English, and told him as an inspired messenger to 
 go to the primitive folk in Ireland and become a 
 creative artist, tie went; and in a few years 
 reached the summit of dramatic achievement. 
 
 Synge was a terrible person, as terrible in his 
 way as Swift. When Carlyle saw Daniel Webster, 
 he said, "I should hate to be that man's nigger." 
 I do not envy any of the men or women who, for 
 whatever reason, incurred the wrath of Synge. 
 He was never noisy or explosive, like a dog whose 
 barks are discounted, to whom one soon ceases to 
 pay any attention ; we all know the futile and petty 
 irascibility of the shallow-minded. Synge was 
 like a mastiff who bites without warning. Irony 
 was the common chord in his composition. He 
 studied life and hated death; hated the gossip of 
 the world, which seemed to him the gabble of 
 fools. Physically he was a sick man, and felt his 
 tether. He thought it frightful that he should 
 have to die, while so many idiots lived long. He 
 never forgave men and women for their folly, and 
 the only reason why he did not forgive God was 
 because he was not sure of His existence. The 
 lady addressed in the following "poem" must 
 have read it with queasy emotion,, and have unwil- 
 lingly learned it by heart. A photograph of her 
 face immediately after its perusal would look like 
 futurist art; but who knows the expression on 
 the face of the afiet while preparing this 
 poison? 
 
174 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 THE CURSE 
 
 To a sister of an enemy of the author's who disapproved of 
 "The Playboy." 
 
 Lord, confound this surly sister, 
 Blight her brow with blotch and blister, 
 Cramp her larynx, lung, and liver, 
 In her g:uts a galling give her. 
 
 Let her live to earn her dinners 
 In Mount joy with seedy sinners: 
 Lord, this judgment quickly bring. 
 And I'm your servant, John M. Synge. 
 
 (Mount joy is a prison.) 
 
 Irish exaggeration is as often seen in plenary 
 curses as in plenary blessings ; both have the qual- 
 ity of humour. The curses are partly compounded 
 of robust delight, like the joy of London cabmen 
 in repartee ; and the blessings are doubtless com- 
 mingled with irony. But Synge had a savage 
 heart. He was essentially a wild man, and a 
 friend of mine had a vision of him that seems not 
 without significance. He was walking in a deso- 
 late part of Ireland in a bleak storm of rain ; when 
 suddenly over the hills came the solitary figure of 
 Synge, dressed in black, with a broad hat pulled 
 over his brows. 
 
 As a stranger and sojourner he walked this 
 earth. In the midst of Dublin he never mentioned 
 politics, read no newspapers, and little contem- 
 porary literature, not even the books of his few 
 intimate friends. Every one who knew him had 
 such immense respect for the quality of his Intel- 
 
THE IRISH POETS 175 
 
 lect that it is almost laughable to think how eagerly 
 they must have awaited criticism of the books they 
 gave him — criticism that never came. Yet he 
 never seems to have given the impression of surli- 
 ness; he was not surly, he was silent. He must 
 have been the despair of diagnosticians; even in 
 his last illness, it was impossible for the doctors 
 and nurses to discover how he felt, for he would 
 not tell. I think his burning mind consumed his 
 bodily frame. 
 
 Synge wrote few poems, and they came at inter- 
 vals during a period of sixteen or seventeen years. 
 Objectively, they are unimportant; his contribu- 
 tions to English literature are his dramas and his 
 prose sketches. But as revelations of his per- 
 sonality they have a deep and melancholy interest ; 
 and every word of his short Preface, written in 
 December, .1908, a few months before his death, is 
 valuable. He knew he was a dying man, and not 
 only wished to collect these fugitive bits of verse, 
 but wished to leave behind him his theory of 
 poetry. With characteristic bluntness, he says 
 that the poems which follow the Preface were 
 mostly written "before the views just stated, with 
 which they have little to do, had come into my 
 head." 
 
 No discussion of modern verse should omit con- 
 sideration of this remarkable Preface — ^for while 
 it has had no effect on either Mr. Teats or Mr. 
 Russell — it has influenced other Irish poets, and 
 many that are not Irish. Indeed much aggres- 
 
176 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 sively "modem" work is trying, more or less suc- 
 cessfully, to fit this theory. In the advance, Synge 
 was more prophet than poet. 
 
 Many of the older poets, such as Villon and Herrick and 
 Bums, used the whole of their personal life as their material, 
 and the verse written in this way was read by strong men, and 
 thieves, and deacons, not by little cliques only. Then, in the 
 town writing of the eighteenth century, ordinary life was put 
 into verse that was not poetry, and when poetry came back 
 with Coleridge and Shelley, it went into verse that was not 
 always human. [This last clause shows the difference between 
 Synge and his friends, Yeats and Russell.] 
 
 In these days poetry is usually a flower of evil or good; 
 but it is the timbre of poetry that wears most surely, and there 
 is no timbre that has not strong roots among the clay and 
 worms. 
 
 Even if we grant that exalted poetry can be kept successful 
 by itself, the strong things in life are needed in poetry also, to 
 show that what is exalted or tender is not made by feeble blood. 
 It may almost be said that before verse can be human again it 
 must learn to be brutal. 
 
 Like Herrick, he wrote verse about himself, for 
 he knew that much biography and criticism would 
 follow his funeral. 
 
 ON AN ANNIVERSARY 
 
 After reading the dates in a hook of Lyrics. 
 With Fifteen-ninety or Sixteen-sixteen 
 We end Cervantes, Marot, Nashe or Green : 
 Then Sixteen-thirteen till two score and nine. 
 Is Crashaw's niche, that honey-lipped divine. 
 And so when all my little work is done 
 They'll say I came in Eighteen-seventy-one, 
 And died in Dublin. . . . What year will they write 
 For my poor passage to the stall of night? 
 
THE IRISH POETS 177 
 
 ^ A QUESTION 
 
 I asked if I got sick and died, would you 
 With my black funeral go walking too, 
 If you'd stand close to hear them talk or pray 
 While I'm let down in that steep bank of clay. 
 
 And, No, you said, for if you saw a crew 
 
 Of living idiots pressing round that new 
 
 Oak coffin — they alive, I dead beneath 
 
 That board — you'd rave and rend them with your teeth. 
 
 The love of brutal strength in Synge's work 
 may have been partly the projection of his sick- 
 ness, just as the invalid Stevenson delighted in the 
 creation of powerful ruffians ; but the brooding on 
 his own death is quite modern, and is, I think, 
 part of the egoism that is so distinguishing a 
 feature in contemporary poetry. So many have 
 abandoned all hope of a life beyond the grave, that 
 they cling to bodily existence with almost glutton- 
 ous passion, and are filled with self-pity at the 
 thought of their own death and burial. To my 
 mind, there is something unworthy, something 
 childish, in all this. When a child has been re- 
 buked orfpunished by its father or mother, it plays 
 a trump card — ' ' You '11 be sorry when I am dead ! ' ' 
 It is better for men and women to attack the daily 
 task with what cheerful energy they can command, 
 and let the interruption of death come when it 
 must. If life is short, it seems unwise to spend 
 so much of our time in rehearsals of a tragedy that 
 can have only one performance. 
 
 In the modern Tempest of Ireland, Yeats is 
 
178 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 Ariel and A. E. is Prospero. He is the Master of 
 the island. As a literary artist, he is not the equal 
 of either of the two men whose work we have con- 
 sidered ; but he is by all odds the greatest Person- 
 ality. He holds over his contemporaries a spirit- 
 ual sway that many a monarch might envy. Per- 
 haps the final tribute to him is seen in the fact that 
 even George Moore treats him with respect. 
 
 One reason for this predominance is the man's 
 sincerity. All those who know him regard him 
 with reverence; and to us who know him only 
 through his books and his friends, his sincerity is 
 equally clear and compelling. He has done more 
 than any other man to make Dublin a centre of 
 intellectual life. At one time his house was kept 
 open every Sunday evening, and any friend, 
 stranger, or foreigner had the right to walk in 
 without knocking, and take a part in the conver- 
 sation. A. E. used to subscribe to every literary 
 journal, no matter how obscure, that was printed 
 in Ireland; every week he would scan the pages, 
 hoping to discover a man of promise. It was in 
 this way he "found" James Stephens, and not 
 only found him, but founded him. Many a strug- 
 gling painter or poet has reason to bless the gra- 
 cious assistance of George W. Russell. 
 
 It is a singular thing that the three great men 
 of modern Ireland seem more like disembodied 
 spirits than carnal persons. Synge always seems 
 to those who read his books like some ghost, wak- 
 ing the echoes with ironical laughter; I cannot 
 
THE IRISH POETS 179 
 
 imagine A. E. putting on coat and trousers; and 
 although I once had the honour — which I grate- 
 fully remember — of a long talk with W. B. Yeats, 
 I never felt that I was listening to a man of flesh 
 and blood. It is fitting that these men had their 
 earthly dwelling in a sea-girt isle, where every 
 foot of ground has its own superstition, and where 
 the constant mists are peopled with unearthly 
 figures. 
 
 I do not really know what mysticism is; but I 
 know that Mr. Yeats and Mr. Eussell are both 
 mystics and of a quite different stamp. Mr. 
 Yeats is not insincere, but his mysticism is a part 
 of his art rather than a part of his mind. He is 
 artistically, rather than intellectually, sincere. 
 The mysticism of Mr. Eussell is fully as intellect- 
 ual as it is emotional; it is more than his creed; 
 it is his life. His poetry and his prose are not 
 shadowed by his mysticism, they emanate from it. 
 He does not have to live in another world when he 
 writes verse, and then come back to earth when the 
 dinner or the door bell rings ; he lives in the other 
 world all the time. Or rather, the earth and com- 
 mon objects are themselves part of the Universal 
 Spirit, reflecting its constant activities. 
 
 DUST 
 
 I heard them in their sadness say 
 
 "The earth rebukes the thought of God; 
 
 We are but embers wrapped in clay, 
 A little nobler than the sod." 
 
180 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 But I have touched the lips of clay, 
 
 Mother, thy rudest sod to me 
 Is thrilled with fire of hidden day, 
 
 And haunted by all mystery. 
 
 The above poem, taken from the author's first 
 volume, Homeward: Songs by the Way, does not 
 reflect that homesickness of which A. E. speaks in 
 his Preface. Homesickness is longing, ye'aming; 
 and there is little of any such quality in the work 
 of A. E. Or, if he is really homesick, he is home- 
 sick not like one who has just left home, but more 
 like one who is certain of his speedy return thither. 
 This homesickness has more anticipation than re- 
 gret ; it is like healthy hunger when one is assured 
 of the next meal. For assurance is the prime 
 thing in A. E. 's temperament and in his work ; it 
 partly accounts for his strong influence. Many 
 writers today are like sheep having no shepherd ; 
 A. E. is a shepherd. To turn from the wailing so 
 characteristic of the poets, to the books of this 
 high-hearted, resolute, candid, cheerful man, is 
 like coming into harbour after a mad voyage. He 
 moves among his contemporaries like a calm, able 
 surgeon in a hospital. I suspect he has been the 
 recipient of many strange confessions. His 
 poetry has healing in its wings. 
 
 Has any human voice ever expressed more 
 wisely or more tenderly the reason why Our Lord 
 was a man of sorrows? Why He spake to hu- 
 manity in the language of pain, rather than in the 
 language of delight? Was it not simply because, 
 
THE IRISH POETS 181 
 
 in talking to us, He who could speak all languages, 
 used our own, rather than that of His home coun- 
 try? 
 
 A LEADER 
 
 Though your eyes witli tears were blind, 
 
 Pain upon the path you trod: 
 Well we knew, the hosts behind, 
 
 Voice and shining of a god. 
 
 For your darkness was our day, 
 
 Signal fires,, your pains untold. 
 Lit us on our wandering way 
 
 To the mystic heart of gold. 
 
 Naught we knew of the high land. 
 
 Beauty burning in its spheres ; 
 Sorrow we could understand 
 
 And the mystery told in tears. 
 
 Something of the secret of his quiet strength is 
 seen in the following two stan2;as, which close his 
 poem Apocalyptic (1916) : 
 
 It shall be better to be bold 
 
 Than clothed in purple in that hour; 
 
 The will of steel be more than gold; 
 For only what we are is power. 
 
 Who through the starry gate would win 
 
 Must be like those who walk therein. 
 
 You, who have made of earth your star. 
 Cry out, indeed, for hopes made vain : 
 
 Tor only those can laugh who are 
 The strong Initiates of Pain, 
 
 Who know that mighty god to be 
 
 Sculptor of immortality. 
 
 It is a wonderful thing — a man living in a house 
 in Dublin, living a life of intense, ceaseless, and 
 
182 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 extraordinarily diversified activity, travelling on 
 life's common way in cheerful godliness, and shed- 
 ding abroad to the remotest corners of the earth a 
 masculine serenity of soul. 
 
 James Stephens was not widely known until the 
 year 1912, when he published a novel called The 
 Crock of Gold; this excited many readers in Great 
 Britain and in America, an excitement consider- 
 ably heightened by the appearance of another work 
 of prose fiction. The Demi-Gods, in 1914 ; and gen- 
 eral curiosity about the author became rampant. 
 It was speedily discovered that he was a poet as 
 well as a novelist; that three years before his 
 reputation he had issued a slim book of verse, 
 boldly named Insurrections, the title being the 
 boldest thing in it. By 1915 this neglected work 
 had passed through four editions, and during the 
 last six years he has presented to an admiring 
 public five more volumes of poems, The Hill of 
 Vision, 1912 ; Songs from the Clay, 1915 ; The Ad- 
 ventures of Seumas Beg, 1915 ; Green Branches, 
 1916, and Reincarnations, 1918. 
 
 A. E. believed in him from the start ; and it was 
 owing to the influence of A. E. that Insurrections 
 took the form of a book, gratefully dedicated to 
 its own begetter. Both patron and protege must 
 have been surprised by its lack of impact, and still 
 more surprised by the immense success of The 
 Crock of Gold. The poems are mainly realistic, 
 pictures of slimy city streets with slimy creatures 
 
THE lEISH POETS 183 
 
 crawling on the pavements. It is an interesting 
 fact that they appeared the same year of Synge 's 
 Poems with Synge 's famous Preface counselling 
 brutality, counselling anything to bring poetry 
 away from the iridescent dreams of W. B. Yeats 
 down to the stark realities of life and nature. 
 They bear testimony to the catholic breadth of 
 A. E.'s sympathetic appreciation, for they are as 
 different as may be imagined from the spirit of 
 mysticism. It must also be confessed that their 
 absolute merit as poetry is not particularly re- 
 markable; all the more credit to the discernment 
 of A. E., who described behind them an original 
 and powerful personality. 
 
 The influence of Synge is strong in the second 
 book of verses, called The Hill of Vision, particu- 
 larly noticeable in such a poem as The Brute. 
 Curiously enough, Songs from the Clay is more 
 exalted in tone than The Hill of Vision. The air 
 is clearer and purer. But the author of The 
 Crock of Gold and The Demi-Gods appears again 
 in The Adventures of Seumas Beg. In these 
 charming poems we have that triple combination 
 of realism, humour, and fantasy that gave so 
 original a flavour to the novels. They make a 
 valuable addition to child-poetry ; for men, women, 
 angels, fairies, Gf-od and the Devil are treated with 
 easy familiarity, in practical, definite, conversa- 
 tional language. These are the best fruits of his 
 imagination in rime. 
 
184 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 THE DEVIL'S BAG 
 
 I saw the Devil walking down the lane 
 
 Behind our house. — There was a heavy bag 
 
 Strapped tightly on his shoulders, and the rain 
 
 Sizzled when it hit him. He picked a rag 
 
 Up from the ground and put it in his sack, 
 
 And grinned and rubbed his hands. There was a thing 
 
 Moving inside the bag upon his back — 
 
 It must have been a soul ! I saw it fling 
 
 And twist about inside, and not a hole 
 
 Or cranny for escape. Oh, it was sad. 
 
 I cried, and shouted out, "Let out that soul!" 
 
 But he turned round, and, sure, his face went mad, 
 
 And twisted up and down, and he said "Hell!" 
 
 And ran away. . . . Oh, mammy ! I'm not well. 
 
 In 1916 Mr. Stephens published a threnody, 
 Green Branches, which illustrates still another 
 side of his literary powers. There is organ-like 
 music in these noble lines. The sting of bitterness 
 is drawn from death, and sorrow changes into a 
 solemn rapture. 
 
 In commenting on Synge's poem, The Curse, I 
 spoke of the delight the Irish have in hyperbolic 
 curses ; an excellent illustration of this may be 
 found in Mr. Stephens' latest volume, Reincarna- 
 tions. There is no doubt that the poet as well as 
 his imaginary imprecator found real pleasure in 
 the production of the following ejaculations : 
 
 RIGHTEOUS ANGER 
 
 The lanky hank of a she in the inn over there 
 Nearly killed me for asking the loan of a glass of beer; 
 May the devil grip the whey-faced slut by the hair. 
 And beat bad manners out of her skin for a year. 
 
THE lEISH POETS 185 
 
 That parboiled imp, -with the hardest jaw you will see 
 On virtue's path, and a voice that would rasp the dead, 
 Came roaring and raging the minute she looked at me, 
 And threw me out of the house on the back of my head ! 
 
 If I asked her master he'd give me a cask a day; 
 But she, with the beer at hand, not a gill would arrange 1 
 May she marry a ghost and bear him a kitten, and may 
 The High King of Glory permit her to get the mange. 
 
 Padraic Colum has followed the suggestion of 
 Synge, and made deep excavations for the founda- 
 tions of his poetry. It grows up out of the soil 
 like a hardy plant ; and while it cannot be called 
 major work, it has a wholesome, healthy earthi- 
 ness. It is realistic in a different way from the 
 town eclogues of James Stephens ; it is not merely 
 in the country, it is agricultural. His most im- 
 portant book is Wild Earth, published in Dublin 
 in 1901, republished with additions in New York 
 in 1916. The smell of the earth is pungent in such 
 poems as The Plougher and The Drover; while 
 his masterpiece, An Old Woman of the Roads, 
 voices the primeval and universal longing for the 
 safe shelter of a home. I wonder what those who 
 believe in the abolition of private property are 
 going to do with this natural, human passion? 
 Private property is not the result of an artificial 
 social code — it is the result of an instinct. The 
 first three stanzas of this poem indicate its quality, 
 expressing the all but inexpressible love of women 
 for each stick of furniture and every household 
 article. 
 
186 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 0, to have a little house ! 
 
 To own the hearth and stool and all ! 
 The heaped up sods upon the fire, 
 
 The pile of turf against the wall ! 
 
 To have a clock with weights and chains 
 And pendulum swinging up and down ! 
 
 A dresser filled with shining delft, 
 
 Speckled and white and blue and brown ! 
 
 I could be busy all the day 
 
 Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor, 
 
 And fixing on their shelf again 
 
 My white and blue and speckled store ! 
 
 Lord Dunsany brought to public attention a new 
 poet, Francis Ledwidge, whose one volume, Songs 
 of the Fields, is full of promise. In October, 
 1914, he enlisted in Kitchener's first army, and 
 was killed on the thirty-first of August, 1917. 
 Ledwidge's poetry is more conventional than that 
 of most of his Irish contemporaries, and he is at 
 his best in describing natural objects. Such 
 poems as A Rainy Day in April, and A Twilight in 
 Middle March are most characteristic. But occa- 
 sionally he arrests the ear with a deeper note. 
 The first four lines of the following passage, taken 
 from An Old Pain, might fittingly apply to a per- 
 sonality like that of Synge : 
 
 I hold the mind is the imprisoned soul, 
 And all our aspirations are its own 
 Struggles and strivings for a golden goal. 
 That wear us out like snow men at the thaw. 
 And we shall make our Heaven where we have sown 
 Our purple longings. Oh ! can the loved dead draw 
 
THE IRISH POETS 187 
 
 Anear us when we moan, or watching wait 
 Our coming in the woods where first we met, 
 The dead leaves falling in their wild hair wet, 
 Their hands upon the fastenings of the gate? 
 
 A direct result of the spiritual influence of A. E. 
 is seen in the poetry of Susan Mitchell. She is 
 not an imitator of his manner, but she reflects the 
 mystical faith. Her little volume, The Living 
 Chalice, is full of the beauty that rises from suf- 
 fering. It is not the spirit of acquiescence or of 
 resignation, but rather dauntless triumphant af- 
 firmation. Her poems of the Christ-child have 
 something of the exaltation of Christina Rossetti ; 
 for to her mind the road to victory lies through the 
 gate of Humility. Here is a typical illustration : 
 
 THE HEART'S LOW DOOR 
 
 Earth, I will have none of thee. 
 
 Alien to me the lonely plain. 
 And the rough passion of the sea 
 
 Storms my unheeding heart in vain. 
 
 The petulance of rain and wind, 
 
 The haughty mountains' superb scorn. 
 
 Are but slight things I've flung behind. 
 Old garments that I have out-worn. 
 
 Bare of the grudging grass, and bare 
 Of the tall forest's careless shade. 
 
 Deserter from thee. Earth, I dare 
 See all thy phantom brightness fade. 
 
 And, darkening to the sun, I go 
 To enter by the heart's low door, 
 
 And find where Love's red embers glow 
 A home, who ne'er had home before. 
 
188 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 Thomas MacDonagli (1878-1916) was, like so 
 many of the young Irish writers of the twentieth 
 century, hoth scholar and poet. In 1916 he pub- 
 lished a prose critical work. Literature in Ireland, 
 in which his two passions, love of art and love of 
 country, are clearly displayed. His books of 
 original verse include The Golden Joy, 1906 ; Songs 
 of Myself, 1910, and others. He was a worshipper 
 of Beauty, his devotion being even more religious 
 than aesthetic. The poems addressed to Beauty 
 — of which there are comparatively many — ex- 
 hibit the familiar yet melancholy disparity be- 
 tween the vision in the poet's soul and the printed 
 image of it. This disparity is not owing to faulty 
 technique, for his management of metrical effects 
 shows ease and grace ; it is simply the lack of suf- 
 ficient poetic vitality. Although his ambition as 
 an artist appears to have been to write great odes 
 and hymns to Beauty, his simple poems of Irish 
 life are full of charm. The Wishes to My Son 
 has a poignant tenderness. One can hardly read 
 it without tears. And the love of a wife for ' ' her 
 man" is truly revealed in the last two stanzas of 
 John- John. 
 
 The neighbours' shame of me began 
 
 When first I brought you in ; 
 To wed and keep a tinker man 
 
 They thought a kind of sin ; 
 But now this three years since you're gone 
 
 'Tis pity me they do, 
 And that I'd rather have, John-John, 
 
 Than that they'd pity you. 
 
THE lEISH POETS 189 
 
 Pity for me and you, John-John, 
 I could not bear. 
 
 Oh, you're my husband right enough, 
 
 But what's the good of that? 
 You know you never were the stuff 
 
 To be the cottage cat, 
 To watch the fire and hear me lock 
 
 The door and put out Shep — 
 But there now, it is six o'clock 
 
 And time for you to step. 
 God bless and keep you far, John- John ! 
 
 And that's my prayer. 
 
 Joseph Campbell, most of whose work has been 
 published under the Irish name Seosamh Mac- 
 cathmhaoil, writes both regular and free verse. 
 He is close to the soil, and speaks the thoughts of 
 the peasants, articulating their pleasures, their 
 pains, and their superstitions. No deadness of 
 conventionality dulls the edge of his art — he is an 
 original man. His fancy is bold, and he makes 
 no attempt to repress it. Perhaps his most strik- 
 ing poem is I am the Gilly of Christ — strange that 
 its reverence has been mistaken for sacrilege! 
 And in the little song. Go, Ploughman, Plough, one 
 tastes the joy of muscle, the revelation of the up- 
 turned earth, and the promise of beauty in 
 fruition. 
 
 Go, ploughman, plough 
 
 The mearing lands. 
 
 The meadow lands : 
 
 The mountain lands : 
 
 All life is bare 
 
 Beneath your share. 
 
 All love is in your lusty hands. 
 
190 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 Up, horses, now! 
 
 And straight and true 
 
 Let every broken furrow run: 
 
 The strength you sweat 
 
 Shall blossom yet 
 
 In golden glory to the sun. 
 
 In 1917 Mr. Campbell published a beautiful 
 volume, signed with his English name, embellished 
 with his own drawings — one for each poem — called 
 Earth of Cualann. Cualann is the old name for 
 the County of "Wicklow, but it includes also a 
 stretch to the northwest, reaching close to Dublin. 
 Mr. Campbell's description of it in his preface 
 makes a musical overture to the verses that follow. 
 "Wild and unspoilt, a country of cairn-crowned 
 hills and dark, watered valleys, it bears even to 
 this day something of the freshness of the heroic 
 dawn. ' ' 
 
 The work of Seumas 'Sullivan, born in 1878, 
 has often been likened to that of W. B. Yeats, but 
 I can see little similarity either in spirit or in man- 
 ner. The younger poet has the secret of melody 
 and his verses show a high degree of technical ex- 
 cellence ; but in these respects he no more resem- 
 bles his famous countryman than many another 
 master. His best poems are collected in a volume 
 published in 1912, and the most interesting of these 
 give pictures of various city streets, Mercer Street 
 (three), Nelson Street, Cuffe Street, and so on. 
 In other words, the most original part of this 
 poet's production is founded on reality. This 
 
THE lEISH POETS 191 
 
 does not mean that lie lacks imagination ; for it is 
 only by imagination that a writer can portray and 
 interpret familiar scenes. The more widely and 
 easily their veracity can be verified by readers, the 
 greater is the challenge to the art of the poet. 
 
 Although the work of Herbert Trench is not 
 particularly identified with Ireland, he was bom 
 in County Cork, in 1865, and his first volume of 
 poems (1901) was called Deirdre Wedded. He 
 completed his formal education at Oxford, taking 
 a first class in the Final Honour Schools, and be- 
 coming a Fellow of All Souls. His poetical repu- 
 tation, which began with the appearance of Apollo 
 and the Seaman, in 1907, has been perceptibly 
 heightened by the publication in 1918 of his col- 
 lected works in two volumes. Poems, ivith Fables 
 in Prose, saluted rapturously by a London critic 
 under the heading "Unforgettable Phrases." No 
 one can now tell whether they are unforgettable 
 or not ; but his poems are certainly memorable for 
 individual lines rather than for complete archi- 
 tectural beauty. In the midst of commonplace 
 composition single phrases stand out in a manner 
 that almost startles the reader. 
 
 We may properly add to our list the names of 
 three Irish poets who are Americans. Maurice 
 Francis Egan, full of years and honours, a scholar 
 and statesman, giving notable service to America 
 as our Minister to Denmark, has written poetry 
 marked by tenderness of feeling and delicacy of 
 art. His little book. Songs and Sonnets, pub- 
 
192 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 lished in 1892, exhibits the range of his work as 
 well as anything that he has written. It is 
 founded on a deep and pure religious faith. . . . 
 Norreys Jephson 'Conor is a young Irish- Ameri- 
 can, a graduate of Harvard,, and has already pub- 
 lished three volumes of verse, Celtic Memories, 
 which appeared in England in 1913, Beside the 
 Blachwater, 1915, and Songs of the Celtic Past, 
 1918 ; in 1916 he published a poetic play, The Fairy 
 Bride, which was produced for the benefit of Irish 
 troops at the front. American by birth and resi- 
 dence, of Irish ancestry, he draws his inspiration 
 almost wholly from Celtic lore and Celtic scenes. 
 He is a natural singer, whose art is steadily in- 
 creasing in authority. 
 
 In 1918 immediate attention was aroused by a 
 volume of poems called My Ireland, from Francis 
 Carlin. This is the work of a young Irishman, a 
 New York business man, who, outside of the shop, 
 has dreamed dreams. Many of these verses are 
 full of beauty and charm. 
 
 It will be seen from our review of the chief fig- 
 ures among contemporary Irish poets that the 
 jolly, jigging Irishman of stage history is quite 
 conspicuous by his absence. He still gives his 
 song and dance, and those who prefer musical- 
 comedy to orchestral compositions can find him in 
 the numerous anthologies of Anglo-Irish verse; 
 but the tone of modem Irish poetry is spiritual 
 rather than hearty. 
 
 Whatever may be thought of the appropriate- 
 
THE IRISH POETS 193 
 
 ness of the term "Advance of English. Poetry" for 
 my survey of the modem field as a whole, there is 
 no doubt that it applies fittingly to Ireland. The 
 last twenty-five years have seen an awakening of 
 poetic activity in that island unlike anything 
 known there before; and Dublin has become one 
 of the literary centres of the world. When a new 
 movement produces three men of genius, and a 
 long list of poets of distinction, it should be recog- 
 nized with respect for its achievement, and with 
 faith in its future. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 AMERICAN TETEBANS AND FORERUNNERS 
 
 American Poetry in the eighteen-nineties — William Vaughn 
 Moody — his early death a serious loss to literature — George 
 Santayana — a master of the sonnet — Robert Underwood John- 
 son—his moral idealism — Richard Burton — ^his healthy op- 
 timism — his growth — Edwin Markham and his famous poem — ■ 
 Ella Wheeler Wilcox — her additions to our language — Edmund 
 Vance Cooke — Edith M. Thomas — Henry van Dyke — George E. 
 Woodberry — his spiritual and ethereal quality — William Dud- 
 ley Foulke — translator of Petrarch — the late H. K. Viele — his 
 whimsicaUty — Cale Young Rice — his prolific production — his 
 versatility — Josephine P. Peabody — Sursum Corda — her child 
 poems — Edwin Arlington Robinson — a forerunner of the mod- 
 em advance — his manliness and common sense — intellectual 
 qualities. 
 
 To compel public recognition by a fresh volume of 
 poems is becoming increasingly difficult. The 
 country fields and the city streets are full of sing- 
 ing birds; and after a few more springs have 
 awakened the earth, it may become as impossible 
 to distinguish the note of a new imagist as the 
 note of an individual robin. When the publishers 
 advertise the initial appearance of a poet, we 
 simply say Another! The versifiers and their 
 friends who study them through a magnifying 
 glass may ultimately force us to classify the 
 songsters into wild poets, gamy poets, barnyard 
 poets, poets that hunt and are hunted. 
 
 194 
 
WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 195 
 
 But in the last decade of the last century, poets 
 other than migratory, poets who were winter resi- 
 dents, were sufficiently uncommon. Indeed the 
 courage required to call oneself a poet was con- 
 siderable. 
 
 Of the old leaders, Whitman, Whittier, and 
 Holmes lived into the eighteen-nineties ; and when, 
 in 1894, the last leaf left the tree, we could not 
 help wondering what the nest Maytime would 
 bring forth. Had William Vaughn Moody lived 
 longer, it is probable that America would have had 
 another major poet. He wrote verse to please 
 himself, and plays in order that he might write 
 more verse ; but at the dawning of a great career, 
 the veto of death ended both. As it is, much of his 
 work will abide. 
 
 Indiana has the honour of his birth. He was 
 bom at Spencer, on the eighth of July, 1869. He 
 was graduated at Harvard, and after teaching 
 there, he became a member of the English Depart- 
 ment of the University of Chicago. He died at 
 Colorado Springs, on the seventeenth of October, 
 1910. 
 
 The quality of high seriousness, so dear to 
 Matthew Arnold, was characteristic of everything 
 that Mr. Moody gave to the public. At his best, 
 there is a noble dignity, a pure serenity in his 
 work, which make for immortality. This dignity 
 is never assumed ; it is not worn like an academic 
 robe ; it is an integral part of the poetry. An Ode 
 in Time of Hesitation has already become a classic. 
 
196 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 both for its depth of moral feeling and for its 
 sculptured style. Like so many other poets, Mr, 
 Moody was an artist with pencil and brush as well 
 as with the pen; his study of form shows in his 
 language. 
 
 George Santayana was born at Madrid, on the 
 sixteenth of December, 18G3. His father was a 
 Spaniard, and his mother an American. He was 
 graduated from Harvard in 1886, and later became 
 Professor of Philosophy, which position he re- 
 signed in 1912, because academic life had grown 
 less and less congenial, although his resignation 
 was a matter of sincere regret on the part of both 
 his colleagues and his pupils. Latterly he has 
 lived in France. 
 
 He is a professional philosopher but primarily 
 a man of letters. His philosophy is interesting 
 chiefly because the books that contain it are ex- 
 quisitely written. He is an artist in prose and 
 verse, and it seems unfortunate that his profes- 
 sorial activity — as in the case of A. E. Housman — 
 choked his Muse. For art has this eternal ad- 
 vantage over learning. Nobody knows whether 
 or not philosophical truth is really true; but 
 Beauty is really beautiful. 
 
 In 1894 Mr. Santayana produced- — in a tiny 
 volume limited to four hundred and fifty copies 
 on small paper — Sonnets and Other Poems; and 
 in 1899 a less important book, Lucifer: a Theo- 
 logical Tragedy. No living American has written 
 finer sonnets than our philosopher. In sincerity 
 
GEOEGE SANTAYANA 197 
 
 of feeling, in living language, and in melody they 
 reach distinction. 
 
 A wall, a wall around my garden rear, 
 
 And hedge me in from the disconsolate hills; ■- 
 
 Give me but one of all the mountain rills. 
 
 Enough of ocean in its voice I hear. '^' 
 
 Come no profane insatiate mortal near 
 
 With the contagion of his passionate ills ; 
 
 The smoke of battle all the valley fills. 
 
 Let the eternal sunlight greet me here. 
 
 This spot is sacred to the deeper soul 
 
 And to the piety that mocks no more. ^ ; 
 
 In nature's inmost heart is no uproar, | 
 
 None in this shrine ; in peace the heavens roll, ''- ' 
 
 In peace the slow tides pulse from shore to shore, ■.• 
 
 And ancient quiet broods from pole to pole. 
 
 world, thou choosest not the better part! 
 It is not wisdom to be only wise, 
 And on the inward vision elo^e the eyes, 
 But it is wisdom to believe the heart. 
 Columbus found a world, and had no chart. 
 Save one that faith deciphered in the skies; 
 To trust the soul's invincible surmise 
 Was aU his science and his only art. 
 Our knowledge is a torch of smoky pine 
 That lights the pathway but one step ahead 
 Across a void of mystery and dread. 
 Bid, then, the tender light of faith to shine 
 By which alone the mortal heart is led 
 Unto the thinking of the thought divine. 
 
 ON A VOLUME OP SCHOLASTIC 
 PHILOSOPHY 
 
 What chilly cloister or what lattice dim 
 Cast painted light upon this careful page? 
 What thought compulsive held the patient sage 
 TiU sound of matin bell or evening h3Tnn ? 
 
198 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 Did visions of the Heavenly Lover swim 
 
 Before his eyes in youth, or did stem rage 
 
 Against rash heresy keep green his age? 
 
 Had he seen God, to write so much of Him? 
 
 Gone is that irrecoverable mind 
 
 With all its phantoms, senseless to mankind 
 
 As a dream's trouble or the speech of birds. 
 
 The breath that stirred his lips he soon resigned 
 
 To windy chaos, and we only find 
 
 The garnered husks of his disused words. 
 
 Eobert Underwood Johnson was born at Wash- 
 ington, on the twelfth of January, 1853, and took 
 his bachelor's degree at Earlham College, in In- 
 diana, at the age of eighteen. When twenty years 
 old, he became a member of the editorial staff of 
 the Century Magazine, and remained there exactly 
 forty years. His first volume of poems, The Win- 
 ter Hour, was published in 1891, since which time 
 he has produced many others. Now he is his own 
 publisher, and two attractive books "published by 
 the author" appeared in 1917 — Poems of War and 
 Peace and Italian Rhapsody. 
 
 Mr. Johnson is a conservative, by which he 
 would mean that as editor, publicist, and poet, he 
 has tried to maintain the highest standards in art, 
 politics, morality, and religion. Certainly his 
 services to his country have been important ; and 
 many good causes that he advocated are now 
 realities. There is no love lost between him and 
 the "new" school in poetry, and possibly each 
 fails to appreciate what is good in the other. 
 
 Moral idealism is the foundation of much of Mr. 
 
E. U. JOHNSON 199 
 
 Johnson's verse; he has written many occasional 
 poems, poems supporting good men and good 
 works, and poems attacking the omnipresent and 
 well-organized forces of evil. I am quite aware 
 that in the eyes of many critics such praise as that 
 damns him beyond hope of redemption; but the 
 interesting fact is, that although he has toiled for 
 righteousness all his life, he is a poet. 
 
 His poem. The Voice of Webster, although writ- 
 ten years ago, is not only in harmony with con- 
 temporary historical judgment (1918) but has a 
 Doric dignity worthy of the subject. There are 
 not a few memorable lines : 
 
 Forgetful of the father in the son, 
 
 Men praised in Lincoln what they blamed in him. 
 
 Always the friend of small and oppressed na- 
 tions, whose fate arouses in him an unquenchable 
 indignation, he published in 1908 paraphrases 
 from the leading poet of Servia. In view of what 
 has happened during the last four years, the first 
 sentence of the preface to these verses, written by 
 Nikola Tesla, has a reinforced emphasis — "Hardly 
 is there a nation which has met with a sadder fate 
 than the Servian." How curious today seems the 
 individual or national pessimism that was so com- 
 mon before 1914! Why did we not realize how 
 (comparatively) happy we were then? Hell then 
 seems like paradise now. It is as though an ath- 
 letic pessimist should lose both legs. Shall we 
 never learn anything from Edgar's wisdom? 
 
200 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 gods ! Who is't can say "I am at the worst" ? 
 
 1 am worse than e'er I was. 
 
 Another poet, wlio has had a long and honour- 
 able career, is Richard Burton. He was bom at 
 Hartford, Connecticut, on the fourteenth of March, 
 1859, and was educated at Trinity and at Johns 
 Hopkins, where he took the doctor's degree in 
 Anglo-Saxon. For the last twenty years he has 
 been Professor of English Literature at the Uni- 
 versity of Minnesota, and is one of the best teach- 
 ers and lecturers in the country. He paradoxi- 
 cally found his voice in a volume of original poems 
 called Dumb in June, which appeared in 1895. 
 Since then he has published many books of verse 
 and prose — plays, stories, essays, and lyrics. 
 
 He has shown steady development as a poet — 
 Poems of Earth's Meaning (he has the habit of 
 bad titles), which came out in 1917, is his high- 
 water mark. I am glad that he reprinted in this 
 volume the elegy on the death of Arthur Upson, 
 written in 1910 ; there is not a false note in it. 
 
 The personality of Richard Burton shines 
 clearly through his work ; cheerful manliness and 
 cheerful godliness. He knows more about human 
 nature than many pretentious diagnosticians ; and 
 his gladness in living communicates itself to the 
 reader. Occasionally, as in Spring Fantasies, 
 there is a subtlety easy to miss on a first or care- 
 less reading. On the edge of sixty, this poet is 
 doing his best singing and best thinking. 
 
 Sometimes an author who has been writing all 
 
MARKHAM, WILCOX, COOKE 201 
 
 his life will, under the flashlight of inspiration, 
 reveal deep places by a few words formed into 
 some phrase that bums its way into literature. 
 This is the case with Edwin Markham (born 1852) 
 who has produced many books, but seems destined 
 to be remembered for The Man With the Hoe 
 (1899). His other works are by no means negligi- 
 ble, but that one poem made the whole world kin. 
 To a certain extent, the same may be said of Ella 
 Wheeler Wilcox (born 1655). In spite of an ex- 
 cess of sentimentality, which is her besetting sin, 
 she has written much excellent verse. Two say- 
 ings, however, will be remembered long after many 
 of her contemporaries are forgotten : 
 
 Laugh and the world laughs with you, 
 Weep, and you weep alone. 
 
 Furthermore, in these days of world-tragedy, 
 we all owe her a debt of gratitude for being the 
 author of the phrase written many years ago : 
 
 No question is ever settled 
 Until it is settled right. 
 
 The legitimate successor to James Whitcomb 
 Riley is Edmund Vance Cooke (bom 1866). He 
 has the same philosophy of cheerful kindliness, 
 founded on a shrewd knowledge of human nature. 
 Verse is his mother tongue; and occasionally he 
 rises above fluency and ingenuity into the pure air 
 of imagination. 
 
 Among America's living veterans should be 
 
202 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 named with respect Edith M. Thomas, who has 
 been bravely singing for over thirty years. She 
 was born in Ohio on the twelfth of August, 1854, 
 and her first book of poems appeared in 1885. 
 She is an excellent illustration of just how far 
 talent can go unaccompanied by the divine breath 
 of inspiration. She has perhaps almost too much 
 facility; she has dignity, good taste, an excellent 
 command of a wide variety of metrical effects ; she 
 has read ancient and modern authors, she is a 
 keen observer, she is as alert and inquisitive now, 
 as in the days of her youth; and loves to use her 
 abilities in cultivating the fruits of the spirit. I 
 suspect that with the modesty that so frequently 
 accompanies good taste, she understands her own 
 limitations better than any critic could do. 
 
 Her long faithfulness to the Muse ought to be 
 remembered, now that poetry has come into its 
 kingdom. 
 
 Among our veteran poets should be numbered 
 also Henry Van Dyke (born 1852). His versa- 
 tility is so remarkable that it has somewhat ob- 
 scured his particular merit. His lyric Reliance is 
 spiritually as well as artistically true : 
 
 Not to the swift, the race: 
 ^ Not to the strong, the fight : 
 
 Not to the righteous, perfect grace: 
 Not to the wise, the light. 
 
 But often faltering feet 
 Come surest to the goal; 
 And they who walk in darkness meet 
 The sunrise of the soul. 
 
GEORGE E. WOODBEERY 203 
 
 A thousand times by night 
 The Syrian hosts have died; 
 A thousand times the vanquished right 
 Hath risen, glorified. 
 
 The truth by wise men sought 
 Was spoken by a child; 
 The alabaster box was brought 
 In trembling hands defiled. 
 
 Not from the torch, the gleam, 
 But from the stars above: 
 Not from my heart, life's crystal stream. 
 But from the depths of love. 
 
 George E. Woodberry (born 1855), graduate of 
 Harvard, a scholar, literary biographer, and critic 
 of high standing, has been eminent among con- 
 temporary American poets since the year 1890, 
 when appeared his book of verse. The North Shore 
 Watch. In 1917 an interesting and valuable Study 
 of his poetry appeared, written by Louis V. 
 Ledoux, and accompanied by a carefully minute 
 bibliography. I do not mean to say anything un- 
 pleasant about Mr. Woodberry or the public, when 
 I say that his poetry is too fine for popularity. It 
 is not the raw material of poetry, like that of Carl 
 Sandburg, yet it is not exactly the finished product 
 that passes by the common name. It is rather the 
 essence of poetry, the spirit of poetry, a clear 
 flame — almost impalpable. "You may not be 
 worthy to smoke the Arcadia mixture," well — we 
 may not be worthy to read all that Mr. Woodberry 
 writes. And I am convinced that it is not his 
 
204 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 fault. His poems of nature and Ms poems of love 
 speak out of the spirit. He not only never 
 "writes down" to the public, it seems almost as if 
 he intended his verse to be read by some race su- 
 perior to the present stage of human development. 
 
 But in his motion like an angel sings, 
 Still quiring to the young-eyed eherubins ; 
 Such harmony is in immortal souls ; 
 But whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
 Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. 
 
 William Dudley Foulke may fairly be classed 
 with the Indiana group. He was born at New 
 York in 1848, but has lived in Indiana since 1876. 
 He has been conspicuous in much political and 
 social service, but the soul of the man is found in 
 his books of verse, most of which have been first 
 printed in England. He is a lifelong student of 
 Petrarch, and has made many excellent transla- 
 tions. His best independent work may be found 
 in a group of poems properly called Ad Patriam. 
 I think such a sonnet as The City's Crown is fairly 
 representative : 
 
 What makes a city great? Huge piles of stone 
 Heaped heavenward? Vast multitudes who dwell 
 
 Within wide circling walls? Palace and throne 
 And riches past the count of man to tell, 
 
 And wide domain ? Nay, these the empty husk ! 
 
 True glory dwells where glorious deeds are done, 
 Where great men rise whose names athwart the dusk 
 
 Of misty centuries gleam like the sun ! 
 
CALE YOUNG EICE 205 
 
 In Athens, Sparta, Florence, 'twas the soul 
 That was the city's bright, immortal part. 
 
 The splendour of the spirit was their goal, 
 Their jewel, the unconquerable heart 1 
 
 So may the city that I love be great 
 Till every stone shall be articulate. 
 
 The early death, of Herman Knickerbocker Viele 
 robbed America not only of one of her most bril- 
 liant novelists, but of a poet of fine flavour. In 
 1903 he published a tall, thin book, Random Verse, 
 that has something of the charm and beauty of 
 The Inn of the Silver Moon. In everything that 
 he wrote, Mr. Viele revealed a winsome whimsi- 
 cality, and a lightness of touch impossible except 
 to true artists. It should also be remembered to 
 his credit that he loved France with an ardour not 
 so frequently expressed then as now. Indeed, he 
 loved her so much that the last four years of 
 agony might have come near to breaking his heart. 
 He was one of the finest spirits of the twentieth 
 century. 
 
 Gale Young Bice was born in Kentucky, on the 
 seventh of December, 1872. He is a graduate of 
 Cumberland University and of Harvard, and his 
 wife is the famous creator of Mrs. Wiggs. He 
 has been a prolific poet, having produced many 
 dramas and lyrics, which were collected in two 
 stout volumes in 1915. In 1917 appeared two new 
 works, Trails Sunward and Wraiths and Realities, 
 with interesting prefaces, in which the anthologies 
 
206 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 of the "new" poetry, their makers, editors, and 
 defenders, are heartily cudgelled. Mr. Eice is a 
 conservative in art, and writes in the orthodox 
 manner; although he is not afraid to make metri- 
 cal experiments. 
 
 I like his lyrical pieces better than his dramas. 
 His verse-plays are good, but not supremely good ; 
 and I find it difficult to read either blank verse 
 or rimed drama, unless it is in the first class, 
 where assuredly Mr. Rice 's meritorious efforts do 
 not belong. 
 
 His songs are spontaneous, not manufactured. 
 He is a natural singer with such facility that it is 
 rather surprising that the average of his work is 
 so good. A man who writes so much ought, one 
 would think, to be more often than not, common- 
 place ; but the fact is that most of his poems could 
 not be turned into prose without losing their life. 
 He has limitations instead of faults; within his 
 range he may be counted on to give a satisfactory 
 performance. By range I mean of course height 
 rather than breadth. He is at home all over the 
 earth, and his subjects are as varied as his style. 
 
 Josephine Preston Peabody (Mrs. Marks) was 
 born at New York, and took her degree at Rad- 
 cliffe in 1894. For two years she was a member 
 of the English department of Wellesley (two syl- 
 lables only). Her drama Marlowe (1901) gave 
 her something like fame, though I have always 
 thought it was overrated; it is certainly inferior 
 to The Death of Marlowe (1837), by Richard Hen- 
 
JOSEPHINE PEABODY 207 
 
 gist Home. In 1910 her play The Piper won the 
 Stratford-on-Avon prize, and subsequently proved 
 to be one of the most successful plays seen on the 
 American stage in the twentieth century. It was 
 produced by the New Theatre, the finest stock 
 company ever known in America. 
 
 Josephine Peabody has written other dramas, 
 and has an enviable reputation as a lyric poet. 
 The burden of her poetry is Sursum Corda! As 
 I read modem verse, I am forced to the conclu- 
 sion that men and women require a vast deal of 
 comforting. The years preceding the war seem 
 in the retrospect happy, almost a golden age; 
 homesickness for the England, France, Italy, 
 America that existed before 1914 is almost a uni- 
 versal sentiment ; yet when we read the verse com- 
 posed during those days of prosperous tranquil- 
 lity, when youth seemed comic rather than tragic, 
 we find that half the poets spent their time in 
 lamentation, and the other half in first aid. An 
 enormous number of lyrics speak as though de- 
 spondency were the normal condition of men and 
 women ; are we really all sad when alone, engaged 
 in reading or writing? "Every man is grave 
 alone," said Emerson. I wonder. 
 
 So many poets seem to tell us that we ought not 
 absolutely to abandon all hope. The case for 
 living is admittedly a bad one; but the poets be- 
 seech us to stick it. Does every man really go 
 down to business in the morning with his jaw set? 
 Does every woman begin the day with compressed 
 
208 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 lips, determined somehow to pull through till aft- 
 ernoon? Even the nature poets are always tell- 
 ing us to look at the birds and flowers and cheer 
 up. Is that all botany and zoology are good for? 
 Have we nothing to learn from nature but — buck 
 up? 
 
 I do not mean that Josephine Peabody's poems 
 resemble glad Polyanna, but I was driven to these 
 divagations by the number of cheery lyrics that 
 she has felt it necessary to write. Now I find it 
 almost as depressing to be told that there is hope 
 as to be told that there isn't. 
 
 I met Poor Sorrow on the way 
 
 As I came down the years ; 
 I gave him everything I had 
 
 And looked at him through tears. 
 
 "But, Sorrow, give me here again 
 
 Some little sign to show; 
 For I have given all I own; 
 
 Yet have I far to go." 
 
 Then Sorrow charmed my eyes for me 
 
 And hallowed them thus far; 
 "Look deep enough in every dark, 
 
 And you shall see the star." 
 
 The first two poems in The Harvest Moon 
 (1916) are very fine; but sometimes I think her 
 best work is found in a field where it is difficult to 
 excel — I mean child poetry. Her Cradle Song is 
 as good as anything of hers I know, though I could 
 wish she had omitted the parenthetical refrain. I 
 hope readers will forgive me — though I know they 
 
E. A. EOBINSON 209 
 
 won't — for saying that Dormi, dormi tu sounds 
 like a triumphant exclamation at the sixteenth 
 hole. 
 
 An American poet who won twenty-two years 
 ago a reputation with a small volume, who ten 
 years later seemed almost forgotten, and who now 
 deservedly stands higher than ever before is Ed- 
 win Arlington Robinson. He was born in Maine, 
 on the twenty-second of December, 1869, and 
 studied at Harvard University. In 1896 he pub- 
 lished two poems, The Torrent and The Night 
 Before; these were included the next year in a 
 volume called The Children of the Night. His suc- 
 cessive books of verse are Captain Craig, 1902; 
 The Town Down the River, 1910 ; The Man Against 
 the Sky, 1916 ; Merlin, 1917 ; and he has printed two 
 plays, of which Van Zorn (1914) despite its chill- 
 ing reception, is exceedingly good. 
 
 Mr. Robinson is not only one of our best known 
 American contemporary poets, but is a leader and 
 recognized as such. Many write verses today be- 
 cause the climate is so favourable to the Muse's 
 somewhat delicate health. But if Mr. Robinson is 
 not a germinal writer, he is at all events a pre- 
 cursor of the modem advance. The year 1896 was 
 not opportune for a venture in verse, but the 
 Gardiner poet has never cared to be in the rear- 
 ward of a fashion. The. two poems that he pro- 
 duced that year he has since surpassed, but they 
 clearly demonstrated his right to live and to be 
 heard. 
 
210 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 The prologue to the 1897 volume contained his 
 platform, which, so far as I know, he has never 
 seen cause to change. Despite the title, he is not 
 an infant crying in the night; he is a full-grown 
 man, whose voice of resonant hope and faith is 
 heard in the darkness. His chief reason for be- 
 lieving in God is that it is more sensible to believe 
 in Him than not to believe. His religion, like his 
 art, is founded on common sense. Everything 
 that he writes, whether in drama, in lyrics, or in 
 prose criticism, is eminently rational. 
 
 There is one creed, and only one, 
 
 That glorifies God's excellence; 
 So cherish, that His will be done, 
 
 The common creed of common sense. 
 
 It is the crimson, not the grey, 
 
 That charms the twilight of all time; 
 
 It is the promise of the day 
 
 That makes the starry sky sublime. 
 
 It is the faith within the fear 
 
 That holds us to the life we curse; — 
 
 So let us in ourselves revere 
 The Self which is the Universe ! 
 
 Let us, the Children of the Night, 
 Put off the cloak that hides the scar! 
 
 Let us be Children of the Light, 
 And tell the ages what we are ! 
 
 This creed is repeated in the sonnet Credo, 
 later in the same volume, which also contains those 
 rather striking portraits of individuals, of which 
 the most impressive is Richard Cory. More than 
 
E. A. EOBINSON 211 
 
 one critic has observed that these dry sketches are 
 in a way forerunners of the Spoon River An- 
 thology. 
 
 The next book, Captain Craig, rather disap- 
 pointed the eager expectations of the poet's ad- 
 mirers; like Carlyle's Frederick, the man finally 
 turns out to be not anywhere near worth the intel- 
 lectual energy expended on him. Yet this volume 
 contained^ what is on the whole, Mr. Eobinson's 
 masterpiece — Isaac and Archibald. We are given 
 a striking picture of these old men, and I suppose 
 one reason why we recognize the merit of this 
 poem so much more clearly than we did sixteen 
 years ago, is because this particular kind of char- 
 acter-analysis was not in demand at that time. 
 
 The figure of the man against the sky, which 
 gives the name to the work published in 1916, does 
 not appear, strictly speaking, till the end of the 
 book. Yet in reality the first poem, Flammonde, 
 is the man against the sky-line, who looms up 
 biggest of all in his town as we look back. This 
 fable teaches us to appreciate the unappreciated. 
 
 Mr. Robinson's latest volume. Merlin, may 
 safely be neglected by students of his work. It 
 adds nothing to his reputation, and seems unchar- 
 acteristic. I can find little in it except diluted 
 Tennyson, and it won't do to dilute Tennyson. 
 One might almost as well try to polish him. It 
 is of course possible that Mr. Eobinson wished to 
 try something in a romantic vein ; but it is not his 
 vein. He excels in the clear presentment of char- 
 
212 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 acter; in pith; in sharp outline; in solid, mas- 
 culine effort; his voice is baritone rather than 
 tenor. 
 
 To me his poetry is valuable for its moral 
 stimulus; for its unadorned honesty and sincer- 
 ity; for its clear rather than warm singing. He 
 is an excellent draughtsman; everything that he 
 has done has beauty of line ; anything pretentious 
 is to him abhorrent. He is more map-maker than 
 painter. He is of course more than a maker of 
 maps. He has drawn many an intricate and ac- 
 curate chart of the deeps and shallows of the 
 human soul. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 VAOHEIj LIKDSAY and ROBERT FROST 
 
 Lindsay the Cymbalist — first impression — Harriet Monroe's 
 Magazine — training in art — the long vagabond tramps — cor- 
 rect order of his works — his drawings — the "Poem Game" — 
 The Congo — General William Booth — wide sweep of his imag- 
 ination — sudden contrasts in sound — his prose works — his in- 
 terest in moving pictures — an apostle of democracy — a wan- 
 dering minstrel— his vitality — a primary man — art plus moral- 
 ity — his geniality — a poet and a missionary — his fearlessness 
 — Robert Trost — the poet of New England — his paradoxical 
 birth — his education — his career in England — his experiences 
 on a farm — his theory of the spoken word — an out-door poet — 
 not a singer — lack of range — interpreter as well as observer 
 — pure realism — ^rural tragedies — centrifugal force — men and 
 women — suspense — the building of a poem — the pleasure of 
 recognition — his sincerity — his truthfulness. 
 
 "But you — you can help so much more. You can help spir- 
 itually. You can help to shape things, give form and thought 
 and poignancy to the most matter-of-fact existence; show peo- 
 ple how to think and live and appreciate beauty. What does 
 it matter if some of them jeer at you, or trample on your 
 work? What matters is that those for whom your message 
 is intended will know you by your work." 
 
 — Stacy Aumonibr, Just Outside. 
 I 
 
 Of all living Americans who have contributed to 
 the advance of English poetry in the twentieth 
 century, no one has given more both as prophet 
 and priest than Vachel Lindsay. His poems are 
 notable for originality, pictorial beauty, and thrill- 
 ing music. He belongs to no modern school, but 
 
 213 
 
214 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 is doing his best to found one ; and when I think 
 of his love of a loud noise, I call him a Cymbalist. 
 Yet when I use the word noise to describe 
 his verse, I use it not only in its present, but in 
 its earlier meaning, as when Edmund Waller 
 saluted Chloris with 
 
 While I listen to thy voice, 
 Chloris ! I feel my life decay ; 
 
 That powerful noise 
 
 Calls my flitting soul away. 
 
 This use of the word, meaning an agreeable, 
 harmonious sound, was current from Chaucer to 
 Coleridge. 
 
 My first acquaintance with Mr. Lindsay's poetry 
 began with a masterpiece. General William Booth 
 Enters into Heaven. Early in the year 1913, be- 
 fore I had become a subscriber to Harriet Mon- 
 roe's Poetry, I found among the clippings in the 
 back of a copy of the I u dependent this extraordi- 
 nary burst of music. I carried it in my pocket for 
 a year. Nothing since Francis Thompson's In No 
 Strange Land had given me such a spinal chill. 
 Later I learned that it had appeared for the first 
 time in the issue of Poetry for January, 1913. All 
 lovers of verse owe a debt of gratitude to Miss 
 Monroe for bringing the new poet to the attention 
 of the public; and all students of contemporary 
 movements in metre ought to subscribe to her 
 monthly magazine ; the numbers naturally vary in 
 value, but almost any one may contain a "find"; 
 
VACHEL LINDSAY 215 
 
 as I discovered to my pleasure in reading Niagara 
 in the summer of 1917. 
 
 Nicholas Vachel Lindsay — Vachel rimes with 
 Rachel — ^was born at Springfield, Illinois — which 
 rimes with boy — on the tenth of November, 1879, 
 His pen name omits the Nicholas. For three 
 years he was a student at Hiram College in Ohio, 
 and for five years an art student,, first at Chicago, 
 and then at New York. This brings us to the year 
 1905. From that year until 1910 he drew strange 
 pictures, lectured on various subjects, and wrote 
 defiant and peculiar "bulletins." At the same 
 time he became a tramp, making long pilgrimages 
 afoot in 1906 through Florida, Georgia, the 
 Carolinas, and in 1908 he invaded in a like man- 
 ner some of the Northern and Eastern States. 
 These wanderings are described with vigour, 
 vivacity, and contagious good humour in his book 
 called A Handy Guide for Beggars. His wallet 
 contained nothing but printed leaflets — his poems 
 — ^which he exchanged for bed and board. He was 
 the Evangelist of Beauty, preaching his gospel 
 everywhere by reciting his verses. In the sum- 
 mer of 1912 he walked from Illinois to New Mexico. 
 
 To understand his development, one should 
 read his books not according to the dates of formal 
 publication, but in the following order : A Handy 
 Guide for Beggars, Adventures While Preaching 
 the Gospel of Beauty, The Art of the Moving 
 Picture — these three being mainly in prose. Then 
 one is ready for the three volumes of poetry, 
 
216 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 General William Booth Enters into Heaven 
 (1913), The Congo (1914), and The Chinese Night- 
 ingale (1917). Another prose work is well under 
 way, The Golden Book of Springfield, concerning 
 which Mr. Lindsay tells me, "The actual Grolden 
 Book is a secular testament about Springfield, to 
 be given to the city in 2018, from a mysterious 
 source. My volume is a hypothetical forecast of 
 the times of 2018, as well as of the Golden Book. 
 Frankly the Lindsay the reviewers know came 
 nearer to existing twelve years ago than today, 
 my manuscripts are so far behind my notes. And 
 a thing that has helped in this is that through 
 changing publishers, etc., my first prose book is 
 called my latest. If you want my ideas in order, 
 assume the writer of the Handy Guide for Beg- 
 gars is just out of college, of Adventures While 
 Preaching beginning in the thirties, and the Art 
 of the Moving Picture half-way through the 
 thirties. The Moving Picture book in the last half 
 embodies my main social ideas of two years ago. 
 In mood and method, you will find The Golden 
 Book of Springfield a direct descendant of the gen- 
 eral social and religious philosophy which I 
 crowded into the photoplay book whether it be- 
 longed there or not. I hope you will do me the 
 favour and honour to set my work in this order in 
 your mind, for many of my small public still think 
 A Handy Guide for Beggars the keynote of my 
 present work. But it was really my first wild 
 dash." 
 
VACHEL LINDSAY 217 
 
 Tlie above letter was written 8 Au^st, 1917. 
 
 Like many creative writers, Mr. Lindsay is an 
 artist not only with tlie pen, but with the pencil. 
 He has made drawings since childhood; drawing 
 and writiag still divide his'time and energy. The 
 first impression one receives from the pictures is 
 like that produced by the poems — strangeness. 
 The best have that Baconian element of strange- 
 ness in the proportion which gives the final touch 
 to beauty; the worst are merely bizarre. He 
 says, "My claim for them is that while laboured 
 and struggling in execution, they represent a 
 study of Egyptian hieroglyphics and Japanese 
 art, two most orthodox origins for art, and have 
 no relation whatever to cubism, post-impression- 
 ism, or futurism. ... I have been very fond of 
 Swinburne all my life, and I should say my draw- 
 ing is nearer to his ornate mood than any of my 
 writing has been. But that is a matter for your 
 judgment. ' ' I find his pictures so interesting that 
 I earnestly hope he will some day publish a large 
 collection of them in a separate volume. 
 
 One of his latest developments is the idea of the 
 Poem Game, which is elaborated with interesting 
 poetic illustrations in the volume called The Chi- 
 nese Nightingale. In giving his directions and 
 suggestions in the latter part of this book, he 
 remarks, "The present rhymer has no ambitions 
 as a stage manager. The Poem Game idea, in 
 its rhythmic picnic stage, is recommended to 
 amateurs, its further development to be on their 
 
218 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 own initiative. Informal parties might divide 
 into groups of dancers and groups of chanters. 
 The whole might be worked out in the spirit in 
 which children play King William was King 
 James's Son, London Bridge. . . . The main revo- 
 lution necessary for dancing improvisers, who 
 would go a longer way with the Poem Game idea, 
 is to shake off the Isadora Duncan and the Rus- 
 sian precedents for a while, and abolish the or- 
 chestra and piano, replacing all these with the 
 natural meaning and cadences of English speech. 
 The work would come closer to acting than danc- 
 ing is now conceived." 
 
 Here is a good opportunity for house parties, 
 in the intervals of Red Cross activities; and at 
 the University of Chicago, 15 February, 1918, 
 The Chinese Nightingale was given with a full 
 chorus of twelve girls, selected for their speaking 
 voices. From the testimony of one of the pro- 
 fessors at the university, it is clear that the per- 
 formance was a success, realizing something of 
 Mr. Lindsay's idea of the union of the arts, with 
 Poetry at the centre. 
 
 Among the games given in verse by the author 
 in the latter part of The Chinese Nightingale 
 volume is one called The Potatoes' Dance, which 
 appears to me to approach most closely to the 
 original purpose. It is certainly a jolly poem. 
 But whether these games are played by laughing 
 choruses of youth or only by the firelight in the 
 fancy of a solitary reader, the validity of Vachel 
 
VACHEL LINDSAY 219 
 
 Lindsay's claim to the title of Poet may be settled 
 at once by witnessing the transformation of a 
 filthy rumhole into a sunlit forest. As Edmond 
 Rostand looked at a dunghill, and saw the vision 
 of Chantecler, so Vachel Lindsay looked at some 
 drunken niggers and saw the vision of the Congo. 
 
 Fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room, 
 
 Barrel-house kings, with feet unstable. 
 
 Sagged and reeled and pounded on the table. 
 
 Pounded on the table. 
 
 Beat an empty barrel with the handle of a broom. 
 
 Hard as they were able. 
 
 Boom, boom, Boom, 
 
 With a silk umbrella and the handle of a broom, 
 
 Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, Boom. 
 
 Then I had religion, Then I had a vision, 
 
 I could not turn from their revel in derision. 
 
 Then I saw the Congo, creeping through the black. 
 
 Cutting through the forest with a golden track. 
 
 Then along that river bank 
 
 A thousand miles 
 
 Tattooed cannibals danced in files; 
 
 Then I heard the boom of the blood-lust song 
 
 And a thigh-bone beating on a tin-pan gong. . . . 
 
 A negro fairyland swung into view, 
 
 A minstrel river 
 
 Where dreams come true. 
 
 The ebony palace soared on high 
 
 Through the blossoming trees to the evening sky. 
 
 The inlaid porches and casements shone 
 
 With gold and ivory and elephant-bone. . . . 
 
 Just then from the doorway, as fat as shotes. 
 
 Came the cake-walk princes in their long red coats, 
 
 Canes with a brilliant lacquer shine, 
 
 And tall silk hats that were red as wine. 
 
 And they pranced with their butterfly partners there, 
 
 Coal-black maidens with' pearls in their hair. 
 
220 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 Knee-skirts trimmed with the jassamine sweet, 
 And bells on their ankles and little black-feet. 
 
 There are those who call this nonsense and its 
 author a mountebank. I call it poetry and its 
 author a poet. You never heard anything like it 
 before; but do not be afraid of your own enjoy- 
 ment. Read it aloud a dozen times, and you, too, 
 will hear roaring, epic music, and you will see the 
 mighty, golden river cutting through the forest. 
 
 I do not know how many towns I have visited 
 where I have heard ' ' What do you think of Vachel 
 Lindsay? He was here last month and recited 
 his verses. Most of his audience were puzzled." 
 Yet they remembered him. What would have 
 happened if I had asked them to give me a brief 
 synopsis of the lecture they heard yesterday on 
 ' ' The Message of John Ruskin ' ' ? Fear not, little 
 flock. Vachel Lindsay is an authentic wandering 
 minstrel. The fine phrases you heard yesterday 
 were like snow upon the desert's dusty face, light- 
 ing a little hour or two, is gone. 
 
 General William Booth Enters into Heaven — 
 with the accompanying instruments, which blare 
 out from the printed page — is a sublime interpre- 
 tation of one of the varieties of religious experi- 
 ence. Two works of genius have been written 
 about the Salvation Army — Major Barbara and 
 General William Booth Enters into Heaven. But 
 Major Barbara, with its almost appalling clever- 
 ness — Granville Barker says the second act is the 
 finest thing Shaw ever composed — is written. 
 
VACHEL LINDSAY 221 
 
 after all, from the seat of the scornful, like a 
 metropolitan reporter at a Gospel tent ; Mr. Lind- 
 say 's poem is written from the inside, from the 
 very heart of the mystery. It is interpretation, 
 not description. "Booth was blind," says Mr. 
 Lindsay; "all reformers are blind." One must 
 in turn be blind to many obvious things, blind to 
 ridicule, blind to criticism, blind to the wisdom 
 of this world, if one would understand a phenom- 
 enon like General Booth. 
 
 Booth led boldly with his big bass drum — 
 
 (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) 
 
 The Saints smiled gravely and they said : "He's come." 
 
 (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) .... 
 
 Walking lepers followed, rank on rank, 
 
 Lurching bravoes from the ditches dank, 
 
 Drabs from the alleyways and drug fiends pale — 
 
 Minds still passion-ridden, soul-powers frail: — 
 
 Vermin-eaten saints with mouldy breath, 
 
 Unwashed legions with the ways of Death — 
 
 (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) .... 
 
 And when Booth halted by the curb for prayer 
 
 He saw his Master thro' the flag-filled air. 
 
 Christ came gently with a robe and crown 
 
 For Booth the soldier, while the throng knelt down. 
 
 He saw King Jesus. They were face to face. 
 
 And he knelt a- weeping in that holy place. 
 
 (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) 
 
 Dante and Milton were more successful in mak- 
 ing pictures of hell than of heaven — no one has 
 ever made a common conception of heaven more 
 permanently vivid than in this poem. 
 
 See how amid the welter of crowds and the 
 
222 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 deafening crash of drums and banjos the individ- 
 ual faces stand out in the golden light. 
 
 Big-voiced lassies made their banjos bang, 
 Tranced, fanatical they shrieked and sang. . . . 
 Bull-necked convicts with that land make free. . . . 
 The lame were straightened, withered limbs uncurled 
 And blind eyes opened on a new, sweet world. . . . 
 Gone was the weasel-head, the snout, the jowl ! 
 Sages and sibyls now, and athletes clean, 
 Eulers of empires, and of forests green! 
 
 It is a pictorial, musical, and spiritual master- 
 piece. I am not afraid to call it a spiritual mas- 
 terpiece ; for to any one who reads it as we should 
 read all true poetry, with an unconditional sur- 
 render to its magic. General William Booth and 
 his horde will not be the only persons present 
 who will enter into heaven. 
 
 Vachel Lindsay needs plenty of room for his 
 imagination — the more space he has in which to 
 disport himself, the more impressive he becomes. 
 His strange poem, How I Walked Alone in the 
 Jungles of Heaven, has the vasty sweep con- 
 genial to his powers. Simon Legree is as ac- 
 curate an interpretation of the negro 's conception 
 of the devil and of hell as General William Booth 
 is of the Salvation Army's conception of heaven, 
 though it is not so fine a poem. When he rises 
 from hell or descends from heaven, he loves big, 
 boundless things on the face of the earth, like the 
 Western Plains and the glory of Niagara. The 
 contrast between the bustling pettiness of the 
 
VACHEL LINDSAY 223 
 
 artificial city of Buffalo and the eternal fresh 
 beauty of Niagara is like Bunyan's vision of the 
 man busy with the muck-rake while over his head 
 stood an angel with a golden crown. 
 
 Within the town- of Buffalo 
 Are prosy men with leaden eyes. 
 Like ants they worry to and fro, 
 (Important men, in Buffalo). 
 But only twenty miles away 
 A deathless glory is at play : 
 Niagara, Niagara. . . . 
 
 Above the town a tiny bird, 
 
 A shining speck at sleepy dawn. 
 
 Forgets the ant-hill so absurd, 
 
 This self-important Buffalo. 
 
 Descending twenty miles away 
 
 He bathes his wings at break of day — 
 
 Niagara, Niagara. 
 
 True poet that he is, Vachel Lindsay loves to 
 show the contrast .between transient noises that 
 tear the atmosphere to shreds and the eternal 
 beauty of unpretentious melody. After the thun- 
 der and the lightning comes the still, small voice. 
 Who ever before thought of comparing the roar 
 of the swiftly passing motor-cars with the sweet 
 singing of the stationary bird? Was there ever 
 in a musical composition a more startling change 
 from fortissimo to pianissimo? 
 
 Listen to the iron-horns, ripping, racking. 
 Listen to the quack-horns, slack and clacking. 
 Way down the road, trilling like a toad. 
 Here comes the dice-horn, here comes the vice-horn, 
 Here comes the snarl-hora, brawl-horn, lewd-horn. 
 
224 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 Followed by the prude-hom, bleak and squeaking : — 
 (Some of them from Kansas, some of them from Kansas.) 
 Here comes the hod-hoin, plod-hom, sod-hom, 
 Nevermore-to-roam-hom, Zoam-horn, home-horn, 
 (Some of them from Kansas, some of them from Kansas.) 
 
 Far away the Rachel-Jane 
 
 Not defeated by the horns. 
 
 Sings amid a hedge of thorns : — 
 
 "Love and life, 
 
 Eternal youth — 
 
 Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet. 
 
 Dew and glory, 
 
 Love and truth, 
 
 Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet." 
 
 Of Mr. Lindsay's prose works tlie one first writ- 
 ten, A Handy Guide for Beggars, is by all odds 
 the best. Even if it did not contain musical 
 cadenzas, any reader would know that the author 
 was a poet. It is full of the spirit of joyous young 
 manhood and reckless adventure, and laughs its 
 way into our hearts. There is no reason why 
 Mr. Lindsay should ever apologize for this book, 
 even if it does not represent his present attitude ; 
 it is as individual as a diary, and as universal as 
 youth. His later prose is more careful, possibly 
 more thoughtful, more full of information; but 
 this has a touch of genius. Its successor, Adven- 
 tures While Preaching the Gospel of Beauty, does 
 not quite recapture the first fine careless rapture. 
 Yet both must be read by students of Mr. Lind- 
 say's verse, not only because they display his 
 personality, but because the original data of many 
 poems can be found among these experiences of 
 
VACHEL LINDSAY 225 
 
 the road. For example, The Broncho That Would 
 Not Be Broken, which iarst appeared in 1917, is 
 the rimed version of an incident that happened 
 in July, 1912. It made an indelible impression 
 on the amateur farmer, and the poem has a poig- 
 nant beauty that nothing will ever erase from the 
 reader 's mind. I feel certain that I shall have a 
 vivid recollection of this poem to the last day of 
 my life, assuming that on that last day I can 
 remember anything at all. 
 
 A more ambitious prose work than either of the 
 tramp books is The Art of the Moving Picture. 
 It is rather singular that Mr. Lindsay, whose 
 poetry primarily appeals to the ear, should be so 
 profoundly interested in an art whose only appeal 
 is to the eye. The reason, perhaps, is twofold. 
 He is professionally a maker of pictures as well 
 as of chants, and he is an apostle of democracy. 
 The moving picture is the most democratic form of 
 art that the world has ever seen. Maude Adams 
 reaches thousands; Mary Pickford reaches mil- 
 lions. It is clear that Mr. Lindsay wishes that 
 the limitless influence of the moving picture may 
 be used to elevate and ennoble America; for here 
 is the greatest force ever known through which 
 his gospel may be preached — the gospel of beauty. 
 
 Like so many other original artists, Mr. Lind- 
 say's poetry really goes back to the origins of 
 the art. As John Masefield is the twentieth cen- 
 tury Chaucer, so Vachel Lindsay is the twentieth 
 century minstrel. On the one occasion when he 
 
226 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 met W. B. Yeats, the Irishman asked him point- 
 blank, "What are we going to do to restore the 
 primitive singing of poetry?" and would not stay 
 for an answer. Fortunately the question was put 
 to a man who answered it by accomplishment ; the 
 best answer to any question is not an elaborate 
 theory, but a demonstration. As it is sometimes 
 supposed that Mr. Lindsay's poetry owes its in- 
 spiration to Mr. Yeats, it may be well to state 
 here positively that our American owes nothing to 
 the Irishman; his poetry developed quite inde- 
 pendently of the other 's influence, and would have 
 been much the same had Mr. Yeats never risen 
 above the horizon. When I say that he owes 
 nothing, I mean he owes nothing in the manner 
 and fashion of his art ; he has a consuming admira- 
 tion for Mr. Yeats 's genius ; for Mr. Lindsay con- 
 siders him of all living men the author of the 
 most beautiful poetry. 
 
 Chants are only about one-tenth of Vachel Lind- 
 say's work. However radical in subject, they 
 are conservative in form, following the precedents 
 of the ode from its origin. It is necessary to in- 
 sist that while the material is new, the method is 
 consciously old. He is no innovator in rime or 
 rhythm. But the chants, while few in number, are 
 the most individual part of his production; and 
 up to the year 1918 — the most impressive. 
 
 For in The Congo we have real minstrelsy. 
 The shoulder-notes, giving detailed directions for 
 singing, reciting, intoning, are as charming in 
 
VACHEL LINDSAY 227 
 
 their way as the stage-directions of J. M. Barrie. 
 They not only show the aim of the poet ; they ad- 
 mit the reader immediately into an inner com- 
 munion with the spirit of the poem. 
 
 Every one who reads The Congo or who hears 
 it read cannot help enjoying it; which is one 
 reason why so many are afraid to call it a great 
 poem. For a similar reason, some critics are 
 afraid to call Percy Grainger a great composer, 
 because of his numerous and delightful audacities. 
 Yet The Congo is a great poem, possessing as it 
 does many of the high qualities of true poetry. 
 It shows a splendid power of imagination, as fresh 
 as the forests it describes ; it blazes with glorious 
 colours; its music transports the listener with 
 climax after climax; it interprets truthfully the 
 spirit of the negro race. 
 
 I should not think of attempting to determine 
 the relative position of Percy Grainger in music 
 and of Vachel Lindsay in poetry; but it is clear 
 that both men possess an amazing vitality. Is 
 it not the lack of vital force which prevents so 
 many accomplished artists from ever rising above 
 the crowd! I suppose we have all read reams 
 on reams of magazine verse exhibiting technical 
 correctness, exactitude in language, and pretty 
 fancy; and after a momentary unspoken tribute 
 to the writer's skill, we straightway forget. But 
 when a poem like Danny Deever appears, it is 
 vain to call it a music-hall ballad, or to pretend 
 that it is not high art; the fact is that the worst 
 
228 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 memory in the world will retain it. Such a poem 
 comes like a breeze into a close chamber; it is 
 charged with vitality. We are in contact with a 
 new force — a force emanating from that mysteri- 
 ous and inexhaustible stream whence comes every 
 manifestation of genius. To have this super- 
 vitality is to have genius ; and although one may 
 have with it many distressing faults of expression 
 and an unlimited supply of bad taste, all other 
 qualities combined cannot atone for the absence of 
 this one primal element. Indeed the excess of 
 wealth in energy is bound to produce shocking ex- 
 crescences ; our Springfield poet is sometimes ab- 
 surd when he means to be sublime, bizarre when 
 he means to be picturesque. The same is true of 
 Walt Whitman — it is true of all creative writers 
 whom John Burroughs calls primary men, in dis- 
 tinction from excellent artists who remain in the 
 secondary class. Mark Twain, Rudyard Kipling, 
 Walt Whitman, John Masefield, Vachel Lindsay 
 are primary men. 
 
 I have often wondered who would write a poem 
 worthy of the Grand Canyon of the Colorado. 
 Vachel Lindsay is the only living American who 
 could do it, and I hope he will accept this chal- 
 lenge. Its awful majesty can be revealed only 
 in verse; for it is one of the very few wonders 
 of the world which no photograph and no paint- 
 ing can ever reproduce. Who ever saw a picture 
 that gave him any conception of this incomparable 
 spectacle? 
 
VACHEL LINDSAY 229 
 
 In order to understand the primary impulse 
 that drove Mr. Lindsay into writing verse and 
 making pictures, one ought to read first of all his 
 poem The Tree of Laughing Bells, or The Wings 
 of the Morning. The first half of the title ex- 
 hibits his love of resounding harmonies ; the sec- 
 ond gives an idea of the range of his imagination. 
 His finest work always combines these two ele- 
 ments, melody and elevation, "and singing still 
 dost soar, and soaring ever singest. " I hope that 
 the picture he drew for The Tree of Laughing 
 Bells may some time be made available for all 
 students of his work, as it was his first serious 
 design. 
 
 Vachel Lindsay is essentially honest, for he 
 tries to become himself exactly what he hopes 
 the future American will be. He is a Puritan with 
 a passion for Beauty; he is a zealous reformer 
 filled with Falstaffian mirth; he goes along the 
 highway, singing and dancing, distributing tracts. 
 "Apollo's first, at last the true God's priest." 
 
 We know that two mighty streams, the Eenais- 
 sance and the Eeformation, which flowed side by 
 side without mingling, suddenly and completely 
 merged in Spenser's Faery Queene. That im- 
 mortal song is a combination of ravishing sweet- 
 ness and moral austerity. Later the Puritan be- 
 came the Man on Horseback, and rode roughshod 
 over every bloom of beauty that lifted its delicate 
 head. Despite the genius of Milton, supreme 
 artist plus supreme moralist, the Puritans man- 
 
230 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 aged somehow to force into the common mind an 
 antagonism between Beauty and Morality which 
 persists even unto this day. There is no reason 
 why those two contemporaries, Oscar Wilde and 
 the Eev. Charles H. Spurgeon, should stand be- 
 fore the London public as the champions of con- 
 tending armies ; for Beauty is an end in itself, not 
 a means, and so is Conduct. 
 
 In the best work of Vachel Lindsay, we find 
 these two qualities happily married, the zest for 
 beauty and the hunger and thirst after righteous- 
 ness. He made a soap-box tour for the Anti- 
 Saloon League, preaching at the same time the 
 Gospel of Beauty. As a rule, reformers are lack- 
 ing in the two things most sedulously cultivated by 
 commercial travellers and life-insurance agents, 
 tact and humour. If these interesting orders of 
 the Knights of the Eoad were as lacking in genial- 
 ity as the typical reformer, they would lose their 
 jobs. And yet fishers of men, for that is what all 
 reformers are, try to fish without bait, at the same 
 time making much loud and offensive speech. 
 Then they are amazed at the callous indifference 
 of humanity to "great moral issues." 
 
 Vachel Lindsay is irresistibly genial. Nor is 
 any of this geniality made up of the professionally 
 ingratiating smile ; it is the foundation of his tem- 
 perament. What has this got to do with his 
 poetry? It has everything to do with it. It gives 
 him the key to the hearts of children ; to the basic 
 
VACHEL LINDSAY 231 
 
 savagery of a primitive black or a poor white; 
 to peripatetic harvesters; to futurists, imagists, 
 blue-stockings, pedants of all kinds ; to evangelists, 
 college professors, drunken sailors, tramps whose 
 robes are lined with vermin. He is the great 
 American democrat, not because that is his politi- 
 cal theory, but simply because he cannot help it. 
 
 His attitude toward other schools of art, even 
 when he has nothing in common with them, is posi- 
 tively aff ectionaite. Oould there be two poets more 
 unlike in temperament and in style than Mr. Lind- 
 say and Mr. Masters? Yet in the volume, The 
 Chinese Nightingale, we have a poem dedicated 
 ' ' to Edgar Lee Masters, with great respect. ' ' He 
 speaks of "the able and distinguished Amy 
 Lowell," and of his own poems "parodied by my 
 good friend, Louis TJntermeyer. " He says, "I 
 admire the work of the Imagist Poets. We ex- 
 change fraternal greetings. . . . But neither my 
 few heterodox pieces nor my many struggling 
 orthodox pieces conform to their patterns. . . . 
 The Imagists emphasize pictorial effects, while 
 the Higher Vaudeville exaggerates musical ef- 
 fects. Imagists are apt to omit rhyme, while in 
 my Higher Vaudeville I often put five rhymes on 
 a line." 
 
 Impossible to quarrel with Vachel Lindsay. 
 His stock of genial tolerance is inexhaustible, and 
 makes him regard not only hostile humans, but 
 even destructive insects, with inquisitive affection. 
 
232 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 I want live things in their pride to remain. 
 I will not kill one grasshopper vain 
 Though he eats a hole in my shirt like a door. 
 I let him out, give him one chance more. 
 Perhaps, while he gnaws my hat in his whim, 
 Grasshopper lyrics occur to him. 
 
 During Ms tramps, the parents who unwillingly 
 received him discovered, when he began to recite 
 stories to their children, that they had entertained 
 an angel unawares; and I have not the slightest 
 doubt that on the frequent occasions when his ap- 
 plication for food and lodging was received with 
 a volley of curses, he honestly admired the noble 
 fluency of his enemy. When he was harvesting, 
 the singing stacker became increasingly and dis- 
 tressingly pornographic ; instead of rebuking him 
 for foulness, which would only have bewildered 
 the stacker, Mr. Lindsay taught him the first 
 stanza of Swinburne's chorus. "The next morn- 
 ing when my friend climbed into our barge to 
 ride to the field he began : 
 
 When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, 
 The mother of months, in meadow or plain. 
 Fills the shadows — 
 
 'Dammit, what's the rest of it? I've been trying 
 to recite that piece all night.' Now he has the 
 first four stanzas. And last evening he left for 
 Dodge City to stay overnight and Sunday. He 
 was resolved to purchase Atalanta in Calydon and 
 find in the Public Library The Lady of Shalott 
 
VACHEL LINDSAY 233 
 
 and The Blessed Damozel, besides paying the 
 usual visit to Ms wife and children." 
 
 If a man cannot understand music, painting, 
 and poetry without loving these arts, neither can 
 a man understand men and women and children 
 without loving them. This is one reason why even 
 the cleverest cynicism is never more than half the 
 truth, and usually less. 
 
 Mr. Lindsay is a poet, and a missionary. As a 
 missionary, he wishes all Americans to be as 
 good judges of poetry as they are, let us say, of 
 baseball. One of the numerous joys of being a 
 professional ball-player must be the knowledge 
 that you are exhibiting your art to a prodigious 
 assembly of qualified critics. John Sargent knows 
 that the majority of persons who gaze at his 
 picture of President Wilson are incompetent to 
 express any opinion; his subtlety is lost of quite 
 misunderstood; but Tyrus Eaymond Cobb knows 
 that the thousands who daily watch him during the 
 summer months appreciate his consummate mas- 
 tery of the game. Vachel Lindsay, I suppose, 
 wants millions not merely to love, but to detect 
 the finer shades of the poetic art. 
 
 If he set out to accomplish this dream by lower- 
 ing the standards of poetry, then he would debase 
 the public and be a traitor to his guild. But his 
 method is uncompromising — he taught the harv- 
 ester not Mrs. Hemans, but Swinburne. He calls 
 his own verse the higher vaudeville. But The 
 
234 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 Congo is the higher vaudeville as Macbeth is the 
 higher melodrama. And there is neither melo- 
 drama nor vaudeville in Abraham Lincoln Walks 
 at Midnight — a poem of stern and solemn majesty. 
 
 Mr. Lindsay is true to the oldest traditions of 
 poetry in his successful attempts to make his 
 verses ring and sing. He is both antique and 
 antic. But he is absolutely contemporary, "mod- 
 ern," "new," in his fearlessness. He has this in 
 common with the practicers of free verse, with 
 the imagists, with the futurists; he is not in the 
 least afraid of seeming ridiculous. There can be 
 no progress in art until artists overcome wholly 
 this blighting fear. It is the lone individual, 
 with his name stamped all over him, charging into 
 the safely anonymous mass; but that way lies 
 the Advance. 
 
 When Thomas Carlyle took up the study of 
 Oliver Cromwell, he found that all previous his- 
 torians had tried to answer this question: What 
 is the mask that Oliver wore ? And suddenly the 
 true answer came to him in the form of another 
 question : What if it should prove to be no mask 
 at all, but just the man's own face? So there are 
 an increasingly large number of readers who are 
 discerning in the dauntless gambols of Vachel 
 Lindsay, not the mask of buffoonery, worn to at- 
 tract attention, but a real poet, dancing gaily with 
 bronchos, children, field-mice and potatoes. 
 
 Such unquenchable vitality, such bubbling ex- 
 uberance, cannot always be graceful, cannot al- 
 
ROBERT FROST 235 
 
 ways be impressive. But the blunders of an or- 
 iginal man are sometimes more fruitful than the 
 correctness of a copyist. Furthermore, blunders 
 sometimes make for wisdom and truth. Let us 
 not forget Vachel Lindsay's poem on Columbus: 
 
 Would that we had the fortunes of Columbus, 
 Sailing his caravels a trackless way. 
 He found a Universe — he sought Cathay. 
 God give such dawns as when, his venture o'er. 
 The Sailor looked upon San Salvador. 
 God lead us past the setting of the sun 
 To wizard islands, of august surprise ; 
 God make our blunders wise. 
 
 COLD PASTORAL! 
 
 The difference between Vachel Lindsay and 
 Robert Frost is the difference between a drum- 
 major and a botanist. The former marches gaily 
 at the head of his big band, looking up and around 
 at the crowd ; the latter finds it sweet 
 
 with unuplifted eyes 
 To pace the ground, if path be there or none. 
 
 Robert Frost, the poet of New England, was 
 born at San Francisco, and published his first vol- 
 ume in London. Midway between these two cities 
 lies the enchanted ground of his verse ; for he be- 
 longs to New England as wholly as Whittier, as 
 truly as Mr. Lindsay belongs to Illinois. He 
 showed his originality so early as the twenty-sixth 
 of March, 1875, by being born at San Francisco ; 
 for although I have known hundreds of happy 
 
236 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 Californians, men and women whose love for 
 their great State is a religion, Eobert Frost is the 
 only person I ever met who was born there. That 
 beautiful country is frequently used as a spring- 
 board to heaven; and that I can understand, 
 for the transition is less violent than from some 
 other points of departure. But why so few na- 
 tives! 
 
 Shamelessly I lift the following biographical 
 facts from Miss Amy Lowell's admirable essay on 
 our poet. At the age of ten, the boy was moved 
 to Lawrence, Massachusetts. He went to school, 
 and disliked the experience. He tried Dartmouth 
 and later Harvard, staying a few months at the 
 first and two years at the second. Between these 
 academic experiences he was married. In 1900 
 he began farming in New Hampshire. In 1911 
 he taught school, and in 1912 went to England. 
 His first book of poems, A Boy's Will, was pub- 
 lished at London in 1913. The review in The 
 Academy was ecstatic. In 1914 he went to live 
 at Ledbury, where John Masefield was born, and 
 where in the neighbourhood dwelt W. W. Gibson. 
 His second volume. North of Boston, was pub- 
 lished at London in 1914. Miss Lowell quotes a 
 sentence, full of insight, from the review in the 
 Times. "Poetry burns up out of it, as when a 
 faint wind breathes upon smouldering embers." 
 In March, 1915, Mr. Frost returned to America, 
 bringing his reputation with him. He bought a 
 farm in New Hampshire among the mountains, 
 
EOBEET FROST 237 
 
 and in 1916 appeared his third volume, Mountain 
 Interval. 
 
 Was there ever a better illustration of the un- 
 critical association of names than the popular 
 coupling of Eobert Frost with Edgar Lee Mas- 
 ters? They are similar in one respect; they are 
 both poets. But in the glorious army of poets, 
 it would be difficult to find two contemporaries 
 more wholly unlike both in the spirit and in the 
 form of their work than Mr. Frost and Mr. Mas- 
 ters. Mr. Frost is as far from free verse as he 
 can stretch, as far as Longfellow; and while he 
 sometimes writes in an ironical mood, he never 
 indulges himself in cynicism. As a matter of 
 fact, Mr. Frost is nearer in his art to Mr. Lind- 
 say than to Mr. Masters ; for his theory of poetry, 
 which I confess I cannot understand, requires the 
 poet to choose words entirely with reference to 
 their spoken value. 
 
 His poetry is more interesting and clearer than 
 his theories about it. I once heard him give a 
 combination reading-lecture, and after he had 
 read some of his poems, all of which are free from 
 obscurity, he began to explain his ideas on how 
 poetry should be written. He did this with charm- 
 ing modesty, but his ' ' explanations ' ' were opaque. 
 After he had continued in this vein for some time, 
 he asked the audience which they would prefer to 
 have him do next— read some more of his poems, 
 or go on talking about poetry? He obtained from 
 his hearers an inamediate response, picked up his 
 
238 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 book, and read in admirable fashion Ms excellent 
 verse. We judge poets by their poems, not by 
 their theories. 
 
 Robert Frost is an out-door poet. Even when 
 he gives a picture of an interior, the people are 
 always looking out of the windows at something 
 or other. In his poems we follow the procession 
 of the seasons, with the emphasis on autumn and 
 winter. One might be surprised at the infre- 
 quency of his poems on spring, were it not for 
 the fact that his knowledge of the country is so 
 precise and definite. Spring is more beautiful in 
 the city than in the country; it comes with less 
 alloy. No one has ever drawn a better picture of 
 a country road in the pouring rain, where "the 
 hoof-prints vanish away." 
 
 In spite of his preoccupation with the exact 
 value of oral words, he is not a singing lyrist. 
 There is not much bel canto in his volumes. Nor 
 do any of his poems seem spontaneous. He is 
 a thoughtful man, given to meditation ; the mean- 
 est flower or a storm-bedraggled bird will lend 
 him material for poetry. But the expression of 
 his poems does not seem naturally fluid. I sus- 
 pect he has blotted many a line. He is as de- 
 liberate as Thomas Hardy, and cultivates the 
 lapidary style. Even in the conversations fre- 
 quently introduced into his pieces, he is as eco- 
 nomical with words as his characters are with 
 cash. This gives to his work a hardness of out- 
 line in keeping with the New England tempera- 
 
EGBERT FROST 239 
 
 ment and the New Hampshire climate. There is 
 no doubt that much of his peculiarly effective 
 dramatic power is gained by his extremely care- 
 ful expenditure of language. 
 
 It is, of course, impossible to prescribe bound- 
 ary lines for a poet, although there are critics who 
 seem to enjoy staking out a poet's claim. While 
 I have no intention of building futile walls around 
 Mr. Frost's garden, nor erecting a sign with the 
 presumptuous prohibition of trespassing beyond 
 them, it is clear that he has himself chosen to 
 excel in quality of produce rather than in variety 
 and range. In the first poem of the first volume, 
 he concludes as follows: 
 
 They would not find me changed from him they knew — 
 Only more sure of all I thought was true. 
 
 This is certainly a precise statement of the impres- 
 sion made on the reader who studies his three 
 books in chronological order. A Boy's Will, as 
 befits a youth who has lived more in himself than 
 in the world, is more introspective than either 
 North of Boston or Mountain Interval; but this 
 habit of introspection gave him both the method 
 and the insight necessary for the accurate study 
 of nature and neighbours. He discovered what 
 other people were like, simply by looking into his 
 own heart. And in A Boy's Will we find that 
 same penetrating examination of rural scenes and 
 common objects that gives to the two succeeding 
 works the final stamp of veracity. I do not re- 
 
240 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 member ever having seen a phrase like the follow- 
 ing, though the phrase instantly makes the famil- 
 iar picture leap into that empty space ever be- 
 fore the reader's eye — that space, which like bare 
 wall-paper, seems to demand a picture on its sur- 
 face. 
 
 Or highway where the slow wheel pours the 
 sand. 
 
 It is fortunate that the law of diminishing re- 
 turns — ^which every farmer is forced to heed — 
 does not apply to pastoral poets. Out of the same 
 soil Robert Frost has successfully raised three 
 crops of the same produce. He might reply that 
 in the intervals he has let the ground lie fallow 
 — but my impression is that he is really working 
 it all the time. 
 
 The sharp eye of the farmer sees nothing missed 
 by our poet, but the poet has interpretation as 
 well as vision. He not only sees things but sees 
 things in their relations; and he knows that not 
 only is everything related to every other thing, 
 but that all things are related to the eternal mys- 
 tery, their source and their goal. This is why 
 the yellow primrose is so infinitely more than a 
 yellow primrose. This also explains why the 
 poems of Mr. Frost, after stirring us to glad rec- 
 ognition of their fidelity, leave us in a revery. 
 
 His studies of human nature are the purest 
 realism. They are conversations rather than 
 arias, for he uses the speaking, not the singing 
 voice. Poets are always amazing us, and some 
 
EOBEET FROST 241 
 
 day Robert Frost may astonish me by writing a 
 romantic ballad. It would surely be a surprise, 
 for with his lack of operatic accomplishment, and 
 his fondness for heroes in homespun, he would 
 seem almost ideally unfitted for the task. This 
 feeling I find strengthened by his poem called 
 An Equal Sacrifice, the only one of his pieces 
 where anything like a ballad is attempted, and the 
 only one in all three books which seems to be an 
 undeviating failure. It is as flat as a pancake, 
 and ends with flat moralizing. Mr. Frost is par- 
 ticularly unsuccessful at preaching. 
 
 No, apart from his nature poems, his studies of 
 men and women are most impressive when they, 
 follow the lines of Doric simplicity in the manner 
 of the powerful stage-plays written by Susan 
 Glaspell. The rigidity of the mould seems all the 
 better fitted for the suppressed passion it con- 
 tains, just as liquid fire is poured into a vessel 
 with unyielding sides. His two most successful 
 poems of this kind are Home Burial, in North of 
 Boston, and Snow, in Mountain Interval. The 
 former is not so much a tragedy as the concen- 
 trated essence of tragedy. There is enough pain 
 in it to furnish forth a dozen funerals. It has 
 that centrifugal force which Mr. Calderon so bril- 
 liantly suggests as the main characteristic of the 
 dramas of Chekhov. English plays are centri- 
 petal; they draw the attention of the audience to 
 the group of characters on the stage; but Chek- 
 hov's, says Mr. Calderon, are centrifugal; they 
 
242 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 throw our regard off from tlie actors to the whole 
 class of humanity they represent. Just such a 
 remark applies to Home Burial; it makes the 
 reader think of the thousands of farmhouses dark- 
 ened by similar tragedies. Nor is it possible to 
 quote a single separate passage from this poem, 
 for each line is so necessary to the total effect 
 that one must read every word of it to feel its 
 significance. It is a masterpiece of tragedy. And 
 it is curious, as one continues to think about it, 
 as one so often does on finishing a poem by Robert 
 Frost, that we are led first to contemplate the 
 number of such tragedies, and finally to con- 
 template a stretch of life of far wider range — 
 the broad, profound difference between a man 
 and a woman. Are there any two creatures on 
 God's earth more unlike? In this poem the 
 man is true to himself, and for that very reason 
 cannot in his honest, simple heart comprehend 
 why he should appear to his own wife as if he 
 were some frightful monster. He is perplexed, 
 amazed, and finally enraged at the look of loath- 
 ing in the wide eyes of his own mate. It was a 
 little thing — his innocent remark about a birch 
 fence — that revealed to her that she was living 
 with a stranger. Grief never possesses a man as 
 it does a woman, except when the grief is exclu- 
 sively concerned with his own bodily business, as 
 when he discovers that he has cancer or tooth- 
 ache. To the last day of human life on earth, it 
 will seem incomprehensible to a woman that a 
 
ROBERT FROST 243 
 
 man, on the occasion of a deatli in the family, can 
 sit down and eat with gusto a hearty meal. For 
 bodily appetite, which is the first thing to leave 
 a woman, is the last to leave a man; and when 
 it has left every other part of his frame, it some- 
 times has a repulsive survival in his eyes. The 
 only bridge that can really cross this fathomless 
 chasm between man and woman is the bridge of 
 love. 
 
 The dramatic quality of Snow is suspense. The 
 object through which the suspense is conveyed to 
 the reader is the telephone, employed with such 
 tragic effect at the Grand Guignol. Mr. Frost's 
 art in colloquial speech has never appeared to 
 better advantage than here, and what a wave of 
 relief when the voice of Meserve is heard ! It is 
 like a resurrection. 
 
 In order fully to appreciate a poem like Mend- 
 ing Wall, one should hear Mr. Frost read it. He 
 reads it with such interpretative skill, with subtle 
 hesitations and pauses for apparent reflection, 
 that the poem grows before the audience even as 
 the wall itself. He hesitates as though he had a 
 word in his hands, and was thinking what would 
 be exactly the best place to deposit it — even as 
 the farmer holds a stone before adding it to the 
 structure. For this poem is not written, it is 
 built. It is built of separate words, and like the 
 wall it describes, it takes two to build it, the 
 author and the reader. When the last line is 
 reached, the poem is finished. 
 
244 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 Nearly every page in the poetry of Robert Frost 
 gives us the pleasure of recognition. He is not 
 only sincere, he is truthful — by which I mean that 
 he not only wishes to tell the truth, but succeeds 
 in doing so. This is the fundamental element in 
 his work, and will, I believe, give it permanence. 
 
 GOOD HOURS 
 
 I had for my winter evening walk — 
 No one at all with whom to talk, 
 But I had the cottages in a row 
 Up to their shining eyes in snow. 
 
 And I thought I had the folk within : 
 I had the sound of a violin ; 
 I had a glimpse through curtain laces 
 Of youthful forms and youthful faces. 
 
 I had such company outward bound. 
 I went till there were no cottages found. 
 I turned and repented, but coming back 
 I saw no window but that was black. 
 
 Over the snow my creaking feet 
 Disturbed the slumbering village street 
 Like profanation, by your leave. 
 At ten o'clock of a winter eve. 
 
 A poem like that gives not only the pleasure of 
 recognition ; it has an indescribable charm. It is 
 the charm when joy fades, not into sorrow, but 
 into a deep, abiding peace. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 AMY LOWELL, ANNA BRANCH, EDGAR LEE MASTERS, 
 LOUIS UNTERMEYER 
 
 Amy Lowell — a patrician — a radical — her education — Her 
 years of preparation — vigour and versatility — definitions of 
 free verse and of poetry — Whitman's influence — the imagists 
 — Patterns — ^her first book — her rapid improvement — sword 
 blades — her gift in narrative — polyphonic prose — Anna 
 Hempstead Branch — her dramatic power — dolnestic poems — 
 tranquil meditation — an orthodox poet — Edgar Lee Masters — 
 his education — Greek inspiration — a lawyer — Beedy's Mirror 
 — the Anthology — power of the past — mental vigour— simi- 
 larity and variety — ^irony and sarcasm — passion for truth — 
 accentuation of ugliness — analysis — a masterpiece of cynicism 
 — an ideal side — the dramatic monologue — defects and limita- 
 tions — Louis Untermeyer — his youth — ^the question of beauty 
 — ^three characteristics — a gilst of life — Still Life — old maids 
 — burlesques and parodies — the newspaper humourists — F. P. 
 A. — his two books — his influence on English composition. 
 
 Among the many American women who are writ- 
 ing verse in the twentieth century, two stand out 
 — Amy Lowell and Anna Branch. And indeed I 
 can think of no woman in the history of our poetry 
 who has surpassed them. Both are bone-bred 
 New Englanders. No other resemblance occurs 
 to me. 
 
 It is interesting that a cosmopolitan radical like 
 Amy Lowell should belong ancestrally so exclus- 
 ively to Massachusetts, and to so distinguished a 
 
 245 
 
246 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 family. She is a born patrician, and a reborn 
 Liberal. James Russell Lowell was a cousin of 
 Miss Lowell's grandfatber, and her maternal 
 grandfather, Abbott Lawrence, was also Minister 
 to England. Her eldest brother, nineteen years 
 older than she, was the late Percival Lowell, a 
 scientific astronomer with a poetic imagination; 
 he was one of the most interesting and charming 
 personalities I ever knew. His constant encour- 
 agement and example were powerful formative in- 
 fluences in his sister's development. Another 
 brother is the President of Harvard, Abbott Law- 
 rence Lowell, through whose dignified, penetrat- 
 ing, sensible, authoritative speeches and writings 
 breathes the old Massachusetts love of liberty. 
 
 Courage is a salient characteristic in Amy 
 Lowell. She is afraid of nothing, not even of her 
 birthday. She was born at Brookline, on the 
 ninth of February, 1874. "Like all young poets, 
 I was influenced by everybody in turn, but I think 
 the person who affected me most profoundly was 
 Keats, although my later work resembles his so 
 little. I am a collector of Keats manuscripts, and 
 have spent much time in studying his erasures and 
 corrections, and they taught me most of what I 
 know about poetry; they, and a very interesting 
 book which is seldom read today — Leigh Hunt's 
 Imagination and Fancy. I discovered the exist- 
 ence of Keats through that volume, as my family 
 read very little of what was considered in those 
 days 'modern poetry'; and, although my father 
 
AMY LOWELL 247 
 
 had Keats in Ms library, Shelley was barred, on 
 account of his being an atheist. I ran across this 
 volume of Leigh Hunt's when I was about fifteen 
 and it turned me definitely to poetry." {Letter 
 of March, 1918.) 
 
 When she was a child, her family took her on a 
 long European tour ; in later years she passed one 
 winter on the Nile, another on a fruit ranch in Cali- 
 forna, another in visiting Greece and Turkey. In 
 1902 she decided to devote her life to writing 
 poetry, and spent eight years in faithful study, 
 effort, and practice without publishing a word. 
 In the Atlantic Monthly for August, 1910, ap- 
 peared her first printed verse ; and in 1912 came 
 her first volume of poems, A Dome of Many-Col- 
 oured Glass, the title being a quotation from the 
 forbidden Shelley. Since that year she has been 
 a notable figure in contemporary literature. Her 
 reputation was immensely heightened and wid- 
 ened by the publication of her second book. Sword 
 Blades and Poppy Seed, in 1914. In 1916 came 
 the third volume, Men, Women, and Ghosts. 
 
 She has been a valiant fighter for poetic theory, 
 writing many articles on Free Verse, Imagism, 
 and kindred themes ; and she is the author of two 
 works in prose criticism. Six French Poets, in 
 1915, and Tendencies in Modern American Poetry, 
 in 1917, of which the former is the more valuable 
 and important. In five years, then, from 1912 
 to 1917, she produced three books of original verse, 
 two tall volumes of literary criticism, and a large 
 
248 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 number of magazine poems and essays — a remark- 
 able record botb in quantity and quality. 
 
 Vigour and versatility are the words that rise 
 in one's mind when thinking of the poetry of 
 Amy Lowell. It is absurd to class her as a dis- 
 ciple of free verse, or of imagism, or of polyphonic 
 prose ; she delights in trying her hand at all three 
 of these styles of composition, for she is an ex- 
 perimentalist; but much of her work is in the 
 strictest orthodox forms, and when she has what 
 the Methodists used to call liberty, no form or its 
 absence can prevent her from writing poetry. 
 
 I can see no reason for either attacking or de- 
 fending free verse, and if I had any influence 
 with Miss Lowell, I should advise her to waste no 
 more time in the defence of any school or theory, 
 because the ablest defence she or any one else can 
 make is actually to write poetry in the manner in 
 which some crystallized critics say it cannot be 
 done. True poetry is recognizable in any gar- 
 ment ; and ridicule of the clothes can no more af- 
 fect the identity of the article than the attitude 
 of Penelope's suitors toward the rags of Ulysses 
 affected his kingship. Let the journalistic wits 
 have their fling; it is even permissible to enjoy 
 their wit, when it is as cleverly expressed as in 
 the following epigram, which I believe appeared 
 in the Chicago Tribiiue: "Free verse is a form 
 of theme unworthy of pure prose embodiment de- 
 veloped by a person incapable of pure poetic ex- 
 pression." Not at all bad; but as some one said 
 
AMY LOWELL 249 
 
 of G. K. Chesterton, it would be unfair to apply 
 to wit the test of truth. It is better to remember 
 Coleridge's remark on poetry: "The opposite 
 of poetry is not prose but science ; the opposite of 
 prose is not poetry but verse. ' ' Perhaps we could 
 say of the polyphonic people that they are well 
 versed in prose. 
 
 The amazing growth of free verse during the 
 last ten years has surprised no one more than me, 
 and it has convinced me of my lack of prophetic 
 clairvoyance. Never an idolater of Walt Whit- 
 man, I have also liever been blind to his genius ; 
 as he recedes in time his figure grows bigger and 
 bigger, like a man in the moving pictures leav- 
 ing the screen. But I used to insist rather em- 
 .phatically that although he was said to be both 
 the poet of democracy and the poet of the future, 
 he was in fact admired mostly by literary aristo- 
 crats ; and that the poets who came after him were 
 careful to write in strict composition. In the 
 'nineties I looked around me and behold, Kipliag, 
 Phillips, Watson and Riley were in their work 
 at the opposite extreme from Walt Whitman; he 
 had not a single disciple of unquestioned poetic 
 standing. Now, in the year of grace 1918, though 
 he is not yet read by the common people — a thou- 
 sand of whom read Longfellow to one who reads 
 Whitman — he has a tribe of followers and imita- 
 tors, many of whom do their utmost to reach his 
 results by his methods, and some of whom enjoy 
 enunence. 
 
250 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 Those wko are interested in the growth of 
 imagist poetry in English should read the three 
 slender anthologies published respectively in 
 1915, 1916, and 1917, called Some Imagist Poets, 
 each containing poems nowhere previously 
 printed. The short prefaces to the first two vol- 
 umes are models of modesty and good sense, 
 whether one likes imagist poetry or hates it. Ac- 
 cording to this group of poets, which is not a 
 coterie or a mutual admiration society, but a 
 few individuals engaged in amicable rivalry at the 
 same game, the principles of imagism are mainly 
 six, of which only the second is a departure from 
 the principles that have governed the production 
 of poetry in the past. First, to use the exact 
 word : second, to create new rhythms : third, to 
 allow absolute freedom in the choice of subject; 
 fourth, to present an image: fifth, to produce 
 poetry that is hard and clear : sixth, to study con- 
 centration. 
 
 There are six poets adequately represented in 
 each volume ; but the best poem of all is Patterns, 
 by Amy Lowell. In spite of having to carry six 
 rules in her head while writing it — for if one is 
 determined to be "free" one must sufficiently in- 
 dicate the fact — she has written a real poem. It 
 strictly conforms to all six requirements, and is 
 at the same time simple, sensuous, passionate. 
 I like it for many reasons — because it is real, in- 
 timate, confidential; because it narrates a tragic 
 experience that is all too common in actual 
 
AMY LOWELL 251 
 
 life ; because its tragedy is enhanced by dramatic 
 contrasts, the splendour of the bright,, breezy, 
 sunlit garden contrasting with the road of 
 ashen spiritual desolation the soul must take; 
 the splendour of the gorgeous stiff brocade and 
 the futility of the blank, soft, imprisoned flesh; 
 the obstreperous heart, beating in joyous har- 
 mony with the rhythm of the swaying flowers, 
 changed by one written word into a desert of 
 silence. It is the sudden annihilation of purpose 
 and significance in a body and mind vital with it ; 
 so that as we close the poem we seem to see for 
 ever moving up and down the garden path a stiff, 
 brocaded gown, moving with no volition. The 
 days will pass : the daffodils will change to roses, 
 to asters, to snow; but the unbroken pattern of 
 desolation will change not. 
 
 Publication is as essential to a poet as an audi- 
 ence to a playwright; Keats realized this truth 
 when he printed Endymion. He knew it was full 
 of faults and that he could not revise it. But he 
 also knew that its publication would set him free, 
 and make it possible for him immediately to write 
 something better. This seems to have been the 
 case with Amy Lowell. Her first book, A Dome of 
 Many-Coloured Glass, does not compare for a 
 moment with Sword Blades and Poppy Seed. It 
 seems a harsh judgment, but I find under the dome 
 hardly one poem of unusual merit, and some of 
 them are positively bad. Could anything be flatter 
 than the first line of the sonnet To John Keats? 
 
252 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 Great master! Boyish, sympathetie man-! 
 
 Tlie second volume, Sword Blades and Poppy 
 Seed, wMch came two years later, showed a re- 
 markable advance, and gave its author an en- 
 viable position in American literature. An ad- 
 mirable preface reveals three characteristics — 
 reverence for the art of poetry, determination 
 not to be confined to any school, and a refresh- 
 ingly honest confession of hard labour in learning 
 how to make poems. As old Quarles put it in 
 the plain-spoken seventeenth century, 
 
 I see no virtues "wliere I smell no sweat. 
 
 The first poem, which gives its name to the vol- 
 ume, is written in the lively octosyllabics made 
 famous by Christmas Eve. The sharpness of her 
 drawings, one of her greatest gifts, is evident in 
 the opening lines: 
 
 A drifting, April, twilight sky, 
 
 A wind which blew the puddles dry, 
 
 And slapped the river into waves 
 
 That ran and hid among the staves 
 
 Of an old wharf. A watery light 
 
 Touched bleak the granite bridge, and white 
 
 Without the slightest tinge of gold. 
 
 The city shivered in the cold. 
 
 Soon the traveller meets a man who takes him 
 to an old room, full of the symbols of poetry — ■ 
 edged weapons, curiously and elegantly wrought, 
 together with seeds of poppy. Poems may be 
 divided into two classes, stimulants and seda- 
 tives. 
 
AMY LOWELL 253 
 
 All books are either dreams, or swords, 
 You can cut, or you can drug, with words. 
 
 Tennyson's poetry is mainly soothing,, which is 
 what lazy and tired people look for in any form 
 of art, and are disappointed when they do not 
 find it; the poetry of Donne, Browning, Emerson 
 is the sword of the spirit ; it is the opposite of an 
 anaesthetic. Hence when readers first meet it, 
 the effect is one of disturbance rather than re- 
 pose, and they think it cannot be poetry. Yet in 
 this piece of symbolism, which itself is full of 
 beauty, Amy Lowell seems to say that both 
 reveille and taps are wrought by music — one is 
 as much the legitimate office of poetry as the 
 other. But although she classifies her poems in 
 this volume according to the opening pair of sym- 
 bols, and although she gives twice as much space 
 to poppies as to swords, her poetry is always more 
 stimulating than soothing. Her poppy seeds 
 won't work; there is not a soporific page in the 
 whole book. 
 
 One of the reasons why her books are so in- 
 teresting is because she knows how to tell a story 
 in verse. In her romances style waits on matter, 
 like an attentive and thoroughly trained hand- 
 maid. Both poetry and incident are sustained 
 from beginning to end ; and the reader would stop 
 more often to admire the flowers along the path 
 if he were not so eager to know the event. In 
 this particular kind of verse-composition, she has 
 shown a steady development. The first real il- 
 
254 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 lustration of her powers is seen in The Great Ad- 
 venture of Max Brueck, in Poppy Seed, though 
 why so stirring a poem is thus classified is to me 
 quite mysterious; yet when we compare this "ef- 
 fort" with later poems like Pickthorn Manor and 
 The Cremona Violin we see an advance both in 
 vigour and in technique which is so remarkable 
 that she makes her earlier narrative seem almost 
 immature. A poet is indeed fortunate who can 
 defeat that most formidable of all rivals — her 
 younger self. In The Cremona Violin we have an 
 extraordinary combination of the varied abilities 
 possessed by the author. It is an absorbing tale 
 full of drama, incident, realism, romanticism, im- 
 agism, symbolism and pure lyrical singing. There 
 is everything in fact except polyphonic prose, and 
 although I am afraid she loves her experiments 
 in that form, they are the portion of her com- 
 plete works that I could most willingly let die. 
 
 Her sensitiveness to colours and to sounds is 
 clearly betrayed all through the romantic narra- 
 tive of the Cremona Violin, where the instrument 
 is a symbol of the human heart. Those who, in the 
 old days before the Germans began their career 
 of wholesale robbery and murder, used to hear 
 Mozart's operas in the little rococo Residenz- 
 Theater in Munich, mil enjoy reminiscently these 
 stanzas. 
 
 The Besidens-Theater sparkled and hummed 
 With Ughts and people. Gelmitz was to sing, 
 That rare soprano. All the fiddles strummed 
 
AMY LOWELL 255 
 
 With tuning up ; the wood-winds made a ring 
 Of reedy bubbling noises, and the sting 
 Of sharp, red brass pierced every eardrum; patting 
 Prom muffled tympani made a dark slatting 
 
 Across the silver shimmering of flutes; 
 A bassoon grunted, and an oboe wailed; 
 The 'celli pizzicato-ed like great lutes. 
 And mutterings of double basses trailed 
 Away to silence, while loud harp-strings hailed 
 Their thin, bright colours down in such a scatter 
 They lost themselves amid the general clatter. 
 
 Frau Altgelt, in the gallery, alone, 
 Felt lifted up into another world. 
 Before her eyes a thousand candles shone 
 In the great chandeliers. A maze of curled 
 And powdered periwigs past her eyes swirled. 
 She smelt the smoke of candles guttering, 
 And caught the scent of jewelled fans fluttering. 
 
 Her most ambitious attempt in polyphonic prose 
 is Guns as Keys,- and the Great Gate Svnngs, 
 whereof the title is like a trumpet fanfare. The 
 thing itself is a combination of a moving picture 
 and a calliope. Written with immense gusto, full 
 of comedy and tragedy, it certainly is not lacking 
 in vitality; but judged as poetry, I regard it as 
 inferior to her verse romances and lyrics. 
 
 Rhythmical prose is as old as the Old Testa- 
 ment; the best modem rhythmical prose that I 
 have seen is found in the earlier plays of Maurice 
 Maeterlinck, written a quarter of a century ago. 
 It is unnecessary to enquire whether those dramas 
 are poetry or not ; for although nearly all his work 
 is in the printed form of prose, the author is 
 
256 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 almost invariably spoken of as "the poet Maeter- 
 linck." 
 
 The versatility of Amy Lowell is so notable 
 that it would be vain to predict the nature of her 
 future production, or to attempt to set a limit to 
 her range. In her latest and best book, Men, 
 Women, and Ghosts, besides the two admirable 
 long narratives, we have poems of patriotism, out- 
 door lyrics, town eclogues, pictures of still life, 
 tragic pastorals in the manner of Susan Glaspell, 
 and one delightful revenant, Nightmare, which 
 takes us back to Dickens, for it is a verse com- 
 ment on a picture by Greorge Cruikshank. Her 
 robust vitality is veined with humour ; she watches 
 a roof-shingler with active delight, discovering 
 poetry in cheerful manual toil. One day life 
 seems to her depressing; another day, beautiful; 
 another, inspiring; another, downright funny. 
 
 In spite of her assured position in contemporary 
 literature, one feels that her career has not 
 reached its zenith. 
 
 Some twelve years ago, I was engaged in earn- 
 est conversation with James Whitcomb Eiley con- 
 cerning the outlook for American poetry. The 
 chronic optimist for once was tilled with woe. 
 "There is not a single person among the younger 
 writers," said he, "who shows any promise of 
 greatness, except"— and then his face recovered 
 its habitual cheerfulness — "Anna Hempstead 
 Branch. She is a poet. ' ' 
 
ANNA BEANCH 257 
 
 In justification of his gloom, it should be re- 
 membered that the present advance in American 
 poetry began some time after he uttered these 
 words ; and although he was a true poet and wrote 
 poems that will live for many years to come, he 
 was, in everything that had to do with the art of 
 poetry, the most conservative man I ever knew. 
 
 Anna Branch was bom at Hempstead House, 
 New London, Connecticut, and was graduated 
 from Smith College in 1897. In 1898 she won a 
 first prize for the best poem awarded by the Cen- 
 tury Magazine in a competition open to college 
 graduates. Since then she has published three 
 volumes of verse. The Heart of the Road, 1901, 
 The Shoes That Danced, 1905, Rose of the Wind, 
 1910. I fear that her ambition to be a dramatist 
 may have prevented her from writing lyrical 
 poetry (her real gift) during these last eight 
 years. If it is true, 'tis pity; for a good poem 
 is a better thing than a successful play and will 
 live longer. 
 
 Like many poets who cannot write plays, she is 
 surcharged with dramatic energy. But, to use a 
 familiar phrase, it is action in character rather 
 than character in action which marks her work 
 most impressively, and the latter is the essential 
 element for the footlights. Shakespeare, Ros- 
 tand, and Barrie have both, and are naturally 
 therefore great dramatists. Two of the most 
 dramatic of Miss Branch's poems are Lazarus 
 and Ora Pro Nobis. These are fruitful subjects 
 
258 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 for poetry, tlie man who came back from the grave 
 and the passionate woman buried alive. In the 
 short piece Lazarus, cast into the form of dialogue, 
 Lazarus answers the question put to him by Ten- 
 nyson in In Memoriam. 
 
 Where wert thou, brother, those four days? 
 
 Various members of the group, astounded at his 
 resurrection, try in vain to have their curiosity 
 satisfied. What do the dead do? Are they 
 happy? Has my baby grown? What overpower- 
 ing motive brought you back from peace to live 
 once more in sorrow? 
 
 This last question Lazarus answers in a posi- 
 tive but unexpected way. 
 
 A great desire led me out alone 
 rrom those assured abodes of perfect bliss. . . . 
 And by the way I went came seeking earth, 
 Seeing before my eyes one only thing — 
 
 The Crowd 
 What was it, Lazarus? Let us share that thing! 
 What was it, brother, thou didst see? 
 Lazarus 
 
 A cross. 
 
 Another dynamic poem, glowing with passion, is 
 Ora Pro Nobis. It is difficult to select passages 
 from it, for it is sustained in power and beauty 
 from the first line to the last ; yet some idea of its 
 form and colour may be obtained by citation. A 
 little girl was put into a convent with only two 
 ways of passing the time; stitching and praying. 
 She has never seen her face — she never will see it. 
 
ANNA BRANCH 259 
 
 for no mirror is permitted; but she sees one day 
 the reflection of its beauty in the hungry eyes of a 
 priest. 
 
 Long years I dwelt in that dark hall, 
 There was no mirror on the wall, 
 I never saw my face at all, 
 (Hail Mary.) 
 In a great peace they kept me there, 
 A straight white robe they had me wear. 
 And the white bands about my hair. 
 I did not know that I was fair. 
 
 (Hail Mary.) . . . 
 The sweet chill fragrance of the snow, 
 More fine than lilies all aglow 
 Breathed around — ^he saw me so. 
 In garments spun of fire and snow. 
 
 (Holy Mother, pray for us.) 
 His hands were on my face and hair, 
 His high, stem eyes that would forswear 
 All earthly beauty, saw me there. 
 Oh, then I knew that I was fair! 
 
 (Mary, intercede for us.) . . . 
 Then I raised up to God my prayer, 
 I swept its strong and circling air, 
 Betwixt me and the great despair. 
 
 (Sweet Mary, pray for us.) 
 But when before the sacred shrine 
 I knelt to kiss the cross benign, 
 Mary, I thought his lips touched mine. 
 
 (Ave Maria, Ora Pro Nobis.) 
 
 Although some of her poems have an intensity al- 
 most terrible, Anna Branch has written house- 
 hold lyrics as beautiful in their uncrowded sim- 
 plicity as an eighteenth century room. The 
 Songs for My Mother, celebrating her clothes, her 
 hands, her words, her stories breathe the un- 
 
260 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 rivalled perfume of tender memories. And if 
 Lazarus is a sword, two of her most original pieces 
 are poppy-seeds, To Nature and 
 
 THE SILENCE OF THE POETS 
 
 I better like that shadowed side of things 
 
 In which the Poets wrote not; when they went 
 
 Unto the fullness of their great content 
 
 Like moths into the grass with folded wings. 
 
 The silence of the Poets with it brings 
 
 The other side of moons, and it is spent 
 
 In love, in sorrow, or in wonderment. 
 
 After the silence, maybe a bird sings. 
 
 I have heard call, as Summer calls the swallow, 
 
 A leisure, bidding unto ways serene 
 
 To be a child of winds and the blue hazes. 
 
 "Dream" — quoth the Dreamer — and 'tis sweet to follow ! 
 
 So Keats watched stars rise from his meadows green, 
 
 And Chaucer spent his hours among the daisies. 
 
 This productive leisure has borne much fruit in 
 the poetry of Anna Branch; her work often has 
 the quiet beauty rising from tranquil meditation. 
 She is an orthodox poet. She uses the old ma- 
 terial — God, Nature, Man — and writes songs with 
 the familiar notation. She has attracted atten- 
 tion not by the strangeness of her ideas, or by the 
 audacity of her method, but simply by the sin- 
 cerity of her thought and the superior quality of 
 her singing voice. There is no difficulty in dis- 
 tinguishing her among the members of the choir, 
 and she does not have to make a discord to be 
 noticed. 
 
EDGAR LEE MASTERS 261 
 
 There are almost as many kinds of poets as 
 there are varieties of human beings; it is a far 
 cry from Anna Branch to Edgar Lee Masters. 
 I do not know whether either reads the other; it 
 may be a mutual admiration exists ; it may be that 
 each would be ashamed to have written the other's 
 books ; even if that were true, there is no reason 
 why an American critic — ^with proper reservations 
 — should not be proud of both. For if there is 
 one thing certain about the advance of poetry in 
 America, it is that the advance is a general one 
 along the whole line of composition from free 
 verse and polyphonic prose on the extreme left to 
 sonnets and quatrains on the extreme right. 
 
 Edgar Lee Masters was born in Kansas, on the 
 twenty-third of August, 1869. The family moved 
 to Illinois the next year. His father was a law- 
 yer, and the child had access to plenty of good 
 books, which he read eagerly. In spite of his 
 preoccupation with the seamy side of human na- 
 ture, he is in reality a bookish poet, and most of 
 his work — though not the best part of it — smells 
 of the lamp. Fortunately for him he was brought 
 up on the Bible, for even those who attack the 
 Old Book are glad to be able to tip their weapons 
 with biblical language. Ibsen used to say that 
 his chief reading, even in mature years, was al- 
 ways the Bible; "it is so strong and mighty." 
 
 Everything connected with books and literary 
 work fascinated the youth; like so many boys of 
 
262 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 his time — before wireless came in — he had his own 
 printing-press. I wonder if it was a "self- 
 inker"? In my day, the boy who owned a "self- 
 inker ' ' and ' ' club-skates ' ' was regarded with envy. 
 The three generations in this family illustrate the 
 play Milestones ; the grandfather vainly tried to 
 make his son a farmer, but the boy elected to be 
 a lawyer and carried his point; he in turn was 
 determined to twist his son into a lawyer, whereas 
 Edgar wanted to be a writer. As this latter pro- 
 fession is usually without emolument, he was 
 forced into the law, where the virile energy of his 
 mind rewarded his zestless efforts with success. 
 However, at the age of twenty-one, he persuaded 
 his father to allow him to study at Knox College 
 for a year, a highly important period in his de- 
 velopment ; for he resumed the interrupted study 
 of Latin, and began Grreek. Greek is the chief 
 inspiration of his life, and of his art. He has 
 read Homer every year since his college days. 
 
 Later he went to Chicago, and stayed there, 
 busying himself not only at his profession, but 
 taking part in political activities, as any one might 
 guess from reading his poems. The primal im- 
 pulse to write was not frustrated ; he has written 
 verse all his life ; and in fact has published a con- 
 siderable number of volumes during the last 
 twenty years, no one of which attracted any at- 
 tention until 1915, when Spoon River Anthology 
 made everybody sit up. 
 
 Mr. Masters was nearly fifty when this book ap- 
 
EDGAR LEE MASTERS 263 
 
 peared; it is a long time to wait for a reputa- 
 tion, especially if one is constantly trying to ob- 
 tain a hearing. It speaks powerfully for his cour- 
 age, tenacity, and faith that he should never have 
 quit — and his triumph will encourage some good 
 and many bad writers to persevere. Emboldened 
 by the immense success of Spoon River, he pro- 
 duced three more volumes in rapid succession; 
 Songs and Satires in 1916, The Great Valley in the 
 same year, and Toward the Gulf in 1918. It is 
 fortunate for him that these works followed rather 
 than preceded the Anthology; for although they 
 are not destitute of merit, they seem to require a 
 famous name to ensure a sale. It, is the brand, 
 and not the goods, that gives a circulation to these 
 books. 
 
 The pieces in Spoon River Anthology originally 
 appeared in William Marion Reedy 's periodical, 
 called Reedy 's Mirror, the first one being printed 
 in the issue for 29 May, 1914, and the others fol- 
 lowing week after week. A grateful acknowledg- 
 ment is made in a brief preface to the volume, and 
 the full debt is handsomely paid in a dedicatory 
 preface of Toward the Gulf, which every one in- 
 terested in Mr. Masters — and who is not? — should 
 read with attention. The poet manfully lets us 
 know that it was Mr. Reedy who, in 1909, made 
 him read the Greek Anthology, without which 
 Spoon River would never have been written. 
 Criticism is forestalled in this preface, because 
 Mr. Masters takes a prose translation of Meleager, 
 
264 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 "with its sad revealment and touch of irony" — 
 exactly the characteristics of Spoon River — and 
 turns it into free verse: 
 
 The holy night and thou, 
 
 Lamp, 
 
 We took as witness of our vows; 
 
 And before thee we swore, 
 
 He that [he] would love me always 
 
 And I that I would never leave him. 
 
 We swore, 
 
 And thou wert witness of our double promise. 
 
 But now he says that our vows were written on the running 
 
 waters. 
 And thou, O Lamp, 
 Thou seest him in the arms of another. 
 
 What Mr. Masters did was to transfer the method 
 and the tone of the Greek Anthology to a twentieth 
 century village in the Middle West, or as he ex- 
 presses it, to make "an epic rendition of modern 
 life." 
 
 Even if it were desirable, how impossible it is 
 to escape from the past ! we are ruled by the dead 
 as truly ia the fields of art as in the domain of 
 morality and religion. The most radical innova- 
 tor can no more break loose from tradition than a 
 tree can run away from its roots. John Mase- 
 field takes us back to Chaucer ; Vachel Lindsay is 
 a reincarnation of the ancient minstrels; Edgar 
 Lee Masters owes both the idea and the form of 
 his masterpiece to Greek literature. Art is as 
 continuous as life. 
 
 This does not mean that he lacks originality. It 
 
EDGAR LEE MASTERS 265 
 
 was a daring stroke — body-snatching in 1914. To 
 produce a work like Spoon River Anthology 
 required years of accumulated experience; a 
 naordant power of analysis; a gift of shrewd 
 speech, a command of hard words that will cut 
 like a diamond; a mental vigour analogous to, 
 though naturally not so powerful, as that dis- 
 played by Browning in The Ring and the Book. 
 It is still a debatable proposition whether or not 
 this is high-class poetry; but it is mixed with 
 brains. Imagine the range of knowledge and 
 power necessary to create two hundred and forty- 
 six distinct characters, with a revealing epitaph 
 for each one! The miracle of personal identity 
 has always seemed to me perhaps the greatest 
 miracle among all those that make up the uni- 
 verse; but to take up a pen and clearly display 
 the marks that separate one individual from the 
 mass, and repeat the feat nearly two hundred and 
 fifty times, this needs creative genius. 
 
 The task that confronted Mr. Masters was this : 
 to exhibit a long list of individuals with sufficient 
 basal similarity for each one to be unmistakably 
 human, and then to show the particular traits that 
 distinguish each man and woman from the others, 
 giving each a right to a name instead of a num- 
 ber. For instinctively we are all alike; it is the 
 way in which we manage our instincts that shows 
 divergence; just as men and women are alike in 
 possessing fingers, whereas no two finger-prints 
 are ever the same. 
 
266 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 Mr. Masters has the double power of irony and 
 sarcasm. The irony of life gives the tone to the 
 whole book ; particular phases of life like religious 
 hypocrisy and political trimming are treated with 
 vitriolic scorn. The following selection exhibits 
 as well as any the author's poetic power of making 
 pictures, together with the grinning irony of fate. 
 
 BERT KESSLER 
 
 I winged my bird, 
 
 Though he flew toward the setting sun ; 
 
 But just as the shot rang out, he soared 
 
 Up and up through the splinters of golden light, 
 
 Till he turned right over, feathers rufBed, 
 
 With some of the down of him floating near, 
 
 And fell like a plummet into the grass. 
 
 I tramped about, parting the tangles. 
 
 Till I saw a splash of blood on a stump, 
 
 And the quail lying close to the rotten roots. 
 
 I reached my hand, but saw no brier. 
 
 But something pricked and stunned and numbed it. 
 
 And then, in a second, I spied the rattler — 
 
 The shutters wide in his yellow eyes, 
 
 The head of him arched, sunk back in the rings of him, 
 
 A circle of filth, the color of ashes, 
 
 Or oak leaves bleached under layers of leaves, 
 
 I stood like a stone as he shrank and uncoiled 
 
 And started to crawl beneath the stump. 
 
 When I fell limp in the grass. 
 
 This poem, with its unforgettable pictures and its 
 terrible climax, can stand easily enough by itself; 
 it needs no interpretation ; and yet, if we like, the 
 rattler may be taken as a symbol — a symbol of 
 the generation of vipers of which the population 
 of Spoon Eiver is mainly composed. 
 
EDGAE LEE MASTERS 267 
 
 In the Anthology, the driving motive is an al- 
 most perverted passion for truth. Conventional 
 epitaphs are marked by two characteristics; ar- 
 tistically, when in verse, they are the worst speci- 
 mens of poetry known to man; even good poets 
 seldom write good epitaphs, and among all the 
 sins against art perpetrated by the uninspired, the 
 most flagrant are found here; to a bad poet, for 
 some reason or other, the temptation to write 
 them is irresistible. In many small communities, 
 one has to get up very early in the morning to 
 die before the village laureate has his poem pre- 
 pared. This depth of artistic infamy is equalled 
 only by the low percentage of truth; so if one 
 wishes to discover literary illustrations where 
 falsehood is united with crudity, epitaphs would 
 be the field of literature toward which one would 
 instinctively turn. 
 
 Like Jonathan Swift, Mr. Masters is consumed 
 with hatred for insincerity in art and insincerity 
 in life; in the laudable desire to force the truth 
 upon his readers, he emphasizes the ugly, the 
 brutal, the treacherous elements which exist, not 
 only in Spoon River, but in every man born of 
 woman. The result, viewed calmly, is that we 
 have an impressive collection of vices — which, al- 
 though inspired by a sincerity fundamentally 
 noble — is as far from being a truthful picture of 
 the village as a conventional panegyric. The ordi- 
 nary photographer, who irons out the warts and 
 the wrinkles, gives his subject a smooth lying 
 
268 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 mask instead of a face; but a photograpli that 
 should make the defects more prominent than the 
 eyes, nose, and mouth would not be a portrait. 
 
 A large part of a lawyer's business is analysis; 
 and the analytical power displayed by Mr. Mas- 
 ters is nothing less than remarkable. Each char- 
 acter in Spoon River is subjected to a remorseless 
 autopsy, in which the various vicious elements ex- 
 isting in all men and women are laid bare. But 
 the business of the artist, after preparatory and 
 necessary analysing, is really synthesis. It is to 
 make a complete artistic whole ; to produce some 
 form of art. 
 
 This is why the Elegy Written in a Country 
 Churchyard, by Thomas Gray, is so superior as 
 a poem to Spoon River Anthology. The rich 
 were buried in the church; the poor in the yard; 
 we are therefore given the short and simple an- 
 nals of the poor. The curious thing is that these 
 humble, rustic, unlettered folk were presented to 
 the world sympathetically by a man who was al- 
 most an intellectual snob. One of the most exact 
 scholars of his day, one of the most fastidious of 
 mortals, one of the shyest men that ever lived, a 
 born mental aristocrat, his literary genius en- 
 abled him to write an immortal masterpiece, not 
 about the Cambridge hierarchy, but about illiterate 
 tillers of the soil. The Elegy is the genius of 
 synthesis ; without submitting each man in the 
 ground to a ruthless cross-examination. Gray man- 
 aged to express in impeccable beauty of language 
 
EDGAR LEE MASTERS 269 
 
 the common thouglits and feelings that have ever 
 animated the human soul. His poem will live aa 
 long as any book, because it is fundamentally- 
 true. 
 
 I therefore regard Spoon River Anthology not 
 as a brilliant revelation of human nature, but as 
 a masterpiece of cynicism. It took a genius to 
 write the fourth book of Gulliver's Travels; but 
 after all. Yahoos are not men and women, and 
 horses are not superior to humanity. The reason 
 why, in reading the Anthology, we experience the 
 constant pricking of recognition is because we 
 recognize the baser elements in these characters, 
 not only in other persons, but in ourselves. The 
 reason why the Yahoos fill us with such terror is 
 because they are true incarnations of our worst 
 instincts. There, but for the grace of God, go 
 you and I. 
 
 The chief element in the creative work of Mr. 
 Masters being the power of analysis, he is at his 
 best in this collection of short poems. When he 
 attempts a longer flight, his limitations appear. 
 It is distinctly unfortunate that The Spooniad and 
 The Epilogue were added at the end of this won- 
 derful Rogues' Gallery. They are witless. 
 
 Even the greatest cynic has his ideal side. It 
 is the figure of Abraham Lincoln that arouses all 
 the romanticism of our poet, as was the case with 
 Walt Whitman, who, to be sure, was no cynic at 
 all. The short poem Anne Rutledge is one of the 
 few that strictly conform to the etymological 
 
270 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 meaning of the title of the book; for "Anthology" 
 is a union of two Greek words, signifying a col- 
 lection of flowers. 
 
 Like Browning, Mr. Masters forsook the drama 
 for the dramatic monologue. His best work is 
 in this form, where he takes one person and per- 
 mits him to reveal himself either in a soliloquy 
 or in a conversation. And it must be confessed 
 that the monologues spoken by contemporaries 
 or by those Americans who talk from the grave- 
 yard of Spoon Eiver, are superior to the attempts 
 at interpreting great historical figures. The 
 Shakespeare poem Tomorrow Is My Birthday is 
 not only one of the worst effusions of Mr. Masters ' 
 pen, it is almost sacrilege. Good friend, for 
 Jesus' sake, forbear! 
 
 Outside of the monologues and the epitaphs, 
 the work of Mr. Masters is mainly unimpressive. 
 Yet I admire his ambition to write on various 
 subjects and in various metres. Occasionally he 
 produces a short story in verse, characterized by 
 dramatic power and by austere beauty of style. 
 The poem Boyhood Friends, recently published in 
 the Yale Review, and quite properly included by 
 Mr. Braithwaite in his interesting and valuable 
 Anthology for 1917, shows such a command of 
 blank verse that I look for still finer things in 
 the future. With all his twisted cynicism and 
 perversities of expression, Mr. Masters is a true 
 poet. He has achieved one sinister masterpiece, 
 which has cleansed his bosom of much perilous 
 
LOUIS UNTERMEYER 271 
 
 stu£F. Tomorrow to fresh woods and pastures 
 new. 
 
 Louis Untermeyer was born at New York, on 
 the first of October, 1885. He produced a volume 
 of original poems at the age of twenty-five. This 
 was followed by three other books, and in addi- 
 tion, he has written many verse-translations, a 
 long list of prose articles in literary criticism, 
 whilst not neglecting his professional work as a 
 designer of jewelry. There is no doubt that this 
 form of art has been a fascinating occupation and 
 an inspiration to poetry. He not only makes 
 sermons in stones, but can manufacture jewels 
 five words long. Should any one be dissatisfied 
 with his designs for the jewel-factory, he can 
 "point with pride" to his books, saying, Haec 
 sunt mea ornamenta. 
 
 Somewhere or other I read a review of the lat- 
 est volume of verse from Mr. Untermeyer, and 
 the critic began as follows: "One is grateful to 
 Mr. Untermeyer for doing what almost none of 
 his contemporaries on this side of the water thinks 
 of doing." This sentence stimulated my curios- 
 ity, for I wondered what particularly distinguish- 
 ing feature of his work I had failed to see. "For 
 about the last thing that poets and theorizers 
 about poetry in these days think of is beauty. In 
 discussion and practice beauty is almost entirely 
 left out of consideration. Frequently they do not 
 concern themselves with it at all." 
 
272 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 Such criticism as that starts with a precon- 
 ceived definition of beauty, misses every form of 
 beauty outside of the definition, and gives to Mr. 
 Untermeyer credit for originality in precisely 
 that feature of his work where he most resembles 
 contemporary and past poets. I believe that 
 beauty is now as it always has been the main aim 
 of the majority of American poets; but instead of 
 legendary beauty, instead of traditional beauty, 
 they wish us to see beauty in modern life. For 
 example, it is interesting to observe how com- 
 pletely public opinion has changed concerning the 
 New York sky-scrapers. I can remember when 
 they were regarded as monstrosities of commer- 
 cialism, an offence to the eye and a torment to the 
 aesthetic sense. But I recall through my reading 
 of history that mountains were also once re- 
 garded as hideous deformities — they were hook- 
 shouldered giants, impressive in size — anything 
 you hke except beautiful. All the mountain had 
 to do was to go on staying there, confident in its 
 supreme excellence, knowing that some day it 
 would be appreciated : 
 
 Somebody remarks : 
 Morello's outline there is wrongly traced, 
 His hue mistaken; what of that? or else, 
 Rightly traced and well ordered; what of that? 
 Speak as they please, what does the mountain care? 
 
 We know better today; we know that the New 
 York sky-scrapers are beautiful ; just as we know 
 
LOUIS UNTERMEYER 273 
 
 tliat New York harbour in the night has some- 
 thing of the glory of fairyland. 
 
 No, it will not do to say that Mr. Untermeyer 
 is original in his preoccupation with beauty; it 
 would be almost as true to say that the chief 
 feature in his work is the English language. 
 
 What is notable in him is the combination of 
 three things ; an immense love of life, a romantic 
 interpretation of material things, and a remark- 
 able talent for parody and burlesque. 
 
 Sex and Death — the obsessions of so many 
 young poets^are not particularly conspicuous in 
 the poetry of this healthy,, happy young man. 
 He writes about swimming, climbing the palisades, 
 willow-trees, children playing in the street. 
 Familiar objects become mysterious and thought- 
 provoking in the light of his fancy. His imagina- 
 tion provides him with no end of fun ; he needs no 
 melancholy solitary pilgrimage in the gloaming 
 to give him a pair of rimes; a country farm or 
 a city slum is quite enough. I like his affection- 
 ate salutation to the willow; I like his interpreta- 
 tion of a side street. His greatest tour de force 
 is his poem, Still Life. Of all painted pictures, 
 with the one exception of dead fish, the conven- 
 tional overturned basket of fruit is to me the most 
 barren of meaning, the least inspiring, in sug- 
 gestion a blank. Yet somehow Mr. Untermeyer, 
 looking at a bowl of fruit, sees something I cer- 
 tainly never saw and do not ever expect to see 
 
274 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 except on this printed page, something that a bowl 
 of fruit has for me in the same proportion as the 
 stump of a cigar — something dynamic. 
 
 I do not understand why so many Americans 
 plaster the walls of their dining-rooms with pic- 
 tures of overset fruit-baskets and of dead fish, 
 with their ugly mouths open; but in "still life" 
 this paradoxical poet sees something full of 
 demoniacal energy. Death, where is thy sting? 
 
 Never have I beheld such fierce contempt, 
 Nor heard a voice so full of vehement life 
 As this that shouted from a bowl of fruit, 
 High-pitched, malignant, lusty and perverse — 
 Brutal with a triumphant restlessness. 
 
 But the fruit in the basket is dead. The energy, 
 the fierce vehemence and the lusty shout are not 
 in the bowl, but in the soul. Subjectivity can no 
 further go. 
 
 It is rather curious, that when our poet can be- 
 hold such passion in a willow-tree or in a mess of 
 plucked fruit, he should be so blind to it in the 
 heart of an old maid; though to be honest, the 
 heroine of his poem is meant for an individual 
 rather than a type. If there is one object on earth 
 that a healthy young man cannot understand, it 
 is an old maid. Who can forget that terrible out- 
 burst of the aunt in Une Vie? "Nobody ever 
 cared to ask if my feet were wet!" Mr. Unter- 
 meyer will live and learn. He is not contemptu- 
 ous; he is full of pity, but it is the pity of ig- 
 norance. 
 
LOinSJQNTERMEYEE 275 
 
 Great joys or sorrows never came 
 
 To set her placid soul astir; 
 Youth's leaping torch, Love's sudden flame 
 
 Were never even lit for her. 
 
 Don't you-believe it, Mr. Untermeyer! 
 
 Even in his "serious" volumes of verse, there 
 is much satire and saline humour ; so that his de- 
 lightful book of parodies, called and Other 
 
 Poets is as spontaneous a product of his Muse as 
 his utterances ex cathedra. The twenty-seven 
 poems, called The Banquet of the Bards, with 
 which the book begins, are excellent fooling and 
 genuine criticism. He wrote these things for his 
 own amusement, one reason why they amuse us. 
 A roll-call of twenty-seven contemporary poets, 
 where each one comes forward and "speaks his 
 piece," is decidedly worth having. John Mase- 
 field ' ' tells the true story of Tom, Tom, the Piper 's 
 Son"; William Butler Yeats "gives a Keltic ver- 
 sion of Three "Wise Men in Gotham"; Eobert 
 Frost "relates the Death of the Tired Man," and 
 so on. I had rather possess this volume than 
 any other by the author; it is almost worthy to 
 rank with the immortal Fly Leaves. Further- 
 more, in his serious work Mr. Untermeyer has 
 only begun to fight. 
 
 And while we are considering poems "in 
 lighter vein," let us not forget the three famous 
 initials signed to a column in the Chicago Tribune, 
 Don Marquis of the Evening Sun, who can be 
 either grave or gay but cannot be imgraceful, and 
 
276 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 the universally beloved Captain Franklin P. 
 Adams, whose Conning Tower increased the cir- 
 culation of the New York Tribune and the blood 
 of its readers. Brightest and best of the sons of 
 the Colyumnists, his classic Muse made the Eve- 
 ning Mail an evening blessing, sending the subur- 
 banites home to their wives "always in good 
 humour"; then, like Jupiter and Venus, he 
 changed from evening star to morning star, and 
 gave many thousands a new zest for the day's 
 work. Skilful indeed was his appropriation of 
 the methods of Tom Sawyer ; as Tom got his fence 
 whitewashed by arousing an eager competition 
 among the boys to do his work for him, each 
 toiler tirmly persuaded that he was the recipient 
 rather than the bestower of a favour, so F. P. A. 
 incited hundreds of well-paid literary artists to 
 compete with one another for the privilege of 
 writing his column without money and without 
 price. 
 
 His two books of verse, By and Large and 
 Weights and Measures, have fairly earned a place 
 in contemporary American literature ; and the in- 
 fluence of his column toward precision and dignity 
 in the use of the English language has made him 
 one of the best teachers of English composition in 
 the country. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 SAEA TBASDALE, ALAN SEEGEE, AND OTHERS 
 
 Sara Teasdale — ^her poems of love — ^her youth — her finished 
 art — Fannie Stearns Davis — her thoughtful verse — Theodosia 
 Garrison — her war poem — war poetry of Mary Carolyn Davies 
 — Harriet Monroe — her services — her original work — Alice 
 Corbin — her philosophy — Sarah Cleghom — poet of the coun- 
 try village — Jessie B. Rittenhouse — critic and poet — Margaret 
 Widdemer — poet of the factories — Carl Sandburg — poet of 
 Chicago — his career — his defects — J. C. Underwood — poet of 
 city noises — T. S. EUot — J. G. Neihardt — love poems — C. W. 
 Stork — Contemporary Verse — ^M. L. Fisher — The Sonnet — S. 
 Middleton — J. P. Bishop — W. A. Bradley — nature poems — W. 
 GriflSth — City Pastorals — John Erskine — W. E. Leonard — ^W. 
 T. Whitsett — Helen Hay Whitney — Corinne Eoosevelt Robin- 
 son — M. Nicholson — ^his left hand — Witter Bynner — a country 
 poet — H. Hagedom — Percy Mackaye — his theories — his possi- 
 bilities — J. G! Fletcher — ^monotony of free verse — Conrad 
 Aiken — his gift of melody — ^W. A. Percy — the best American 
 pqem of 1917 — Alan Seeger — an Elizabethan — an inspired 
 poet. 
 
 Sara Teasdale (Mrs. Filsinger) was born at St. 
 Louis (pronounced Lewis), on the eighth of 
 August, 1884. Her first book appeared when she 
 was twenty-three, and made an impression. In 
 1911 she published Helen of Troy, and Other 
 Poems; in 1915 a volume of original lyrics 
 called Rivers to the Sea; some of these were re- 
 printed, together with new material, in Love 
 
 277 
 
278 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 Poems (1917), which also contained Songs out of 
 Sorrow — verses that won the prize offered by the 
 Poetry Society of America for the best unpub- 
 lished work read at the meetings in 1916 ; and in 
 1918 she received the Columbia University Poetry 
 Prize of five hundred dollars, for the best book 
 produced by an American in 1917. 
 
 In spite of her youth and the slender amount 
 of her production, Sara Teasdale has won her 
 way to the front rank of living American poets. 
 She is among the happy few who not only know 
 what they wish to accomplish, but who succeed 
 in the attempt. How many manuscripts she 
 burns, I know not; but the comparatively small 
 number of pages that reach the world are nearly 
 fleckless. Her career is beginning, but her work 
 shows a combination of strength and grace that 
 many a master might envy. It would be an in- 
 sult to call her poems "promising," for most of 
 them exhibit a consummate control of the art of 
 lyrical expression. Give her more years, more 
 experience, wider range, richer content, her arch- 
 itecture may become as massive as it is fine. She 
 thoroughly understands the manipulation of the 
 material of poetry. It would be difficult to sug- 
 gest any improvement upon 
 
 TWILIGHT 
 
 The stately tragedy of dusk 
 
 Drew to its perfect close, 
 The virginal white evening star 
 
 Sank, and the red moon rose. 
 
SARA TEASDALE 279 
 
 Although she gives us many beautiful pictures 
 of nature, she is primarily a poet of love. White- 
 hot passion without a trace of anything common 
 or unclean ; absolute surrender ; whole-hearted de- 
 votion expressed in pure singing. Nothing is 
 finer than this — to realize that the primal impulse 
 is as strong as in the breast of a cave-woman, yet 
 illumined by clear, high intelligence, and pouring 
 out its feeling in a voice of gracious charm. 
 
 PITY ; 
 
 They never saw my lover's face, 
 They only know our love was brief, 
 
 Wearing awhile a windy grace 
 And passing like an autumn leaf. 
 
 They wonder why I do not weep, 
 They think it strange that I can sing, 
 
 They say, "Her love was scarcely deep 
 Since it has left so slight a sting." 
 
 They never saw my love nor knew 
 That in my heart's most secret place 
 
 I pity them as angels do 
 Men who have never seen God's face. 
 
 A PRAYER 
 
 Until I lose my soul and lie 
 
 Blind to the beauty of the earth. 
 Deaf tho' a lyric wind goes by. 
 
 Dumb in a storm of mirth ; 
 
 Until my heart is quenched at length 
 
 And I have left the land of men. 
 Oh, let me love with all my strength 
 
 Careless if I am loved again. 
 
280 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 If the two pieces just cited are not poetry, then 
 I have no idea what poetry may be. 
 
 Another young woman poet is Fannie Stearns 
 Davis (Mrs. G-ifford). The quality of her mind 
 as displayed in her two books indicates possibili- 
 ties of high development. She was bom at Cleve- 
 land, on the sixth of March, 1884, is a graduate 
 of Smith College, was a teacher in Wisconsin, and 
 has made many contributions to various maga- 
 zines. Her first book of poems, Myself and I, ap- 
 peared in 1913 ; two years later came the volume 
 called Crach o' Dawn. She is not much given to 
 metrical adventure, although one of her most or- 
 iginal poems, As I Dra/nk Tea Today, has an ir- 
 regular rime-scheme. For the most part, she 
 follows both in subject and style the poetic tradi- 
 tion. She has the gift of song — not indeed in the 
 superlative degree — but nevertheless unmistak- 
 able; and she has a full mind. She is neither 
 optimist nor pessimist; I should call her a sym- 
 pathetic observer. The following poem sums up 
 fairly well her accumulated wisdom: 
 
 I have looked into all men's hearts. 
 Like houses at night unshuttered they stand, 
 And I walk in the street, in the dark, and on either hand 
 
 There are hollow houses, men's hearts. 
 
 They think that the curtains are drawn, 
 Yet I see their shadows suddenly kneel 
 To pray, or laughing and reckless as drunkards reel 
 
 Into dead sleep till dawn. 
 
FANNIE STEAENS DAVIS 281 
 
 And I see an immortal child 
 With its quaint high dreams and wondering eyes 
 Sleeping beneath the hard worn body that lies 
 
 Like a mummy-ease defiled. 
 
 And I hear an immortal cry 
 Of splendour strain through the sodden words, 
 Like a flight of brave-winged heaven-desirous birds 
 
 From a swamp where poisons lie. 
 
 — I have looked into all men's hearts. 
 Oh, secret terrible houses of beauty and pain! 
 And I cannot be gay, but I cannot be bitter again. 
 
 Since I looked into all men's hearts. 
 
 There is one commandment that all poets un- 
 der the first class, and perhaps some of those 
 favoured ones, frequently break: the tenth. One 
 cannot blame them, for they know what poetry is, 
 and they love it. They not only know what it is, 
 but their own limited experience has taught them 
 what rapture it must be to write lines of flawless 
 beauty. This unconquerable covetousness is ad- 
 mirably and artistically expressed in Fannie 
 Davis's poem, After Copying Goodly Poetry. It 
 is an honest confession ; but its author is fortunate 
 in being able to express vain desire so beautifully 
 that many lesser poets will covet her covetousness. 
 
 Theodosia Garrison was born at Newark, New 
 Jersey, on the twenty-sixth of November, 1874. 
 She has published three volumes of verse, of which 
 perhaps the best known is The Joy of Life (1909). 
 At present she is engaged in war work, where her 
 high faith, serene womanliness, and overflowing 
 
282 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 humour ought to make her, in the finest sense of 
 the word, efficient. Her short poem on the war 
 is a good answer to detractors of America. 
 
 « 
 
 APRIL 2iid 
 
 We have been patient — and they named us weak; 
 We have been silent — and they judged us meek, 
 Now, in the much-abused, high name of God 
 We speak. 
 
 Oh, not with faltering or uncertain tone — 
 With chosen words we make our meaning known, 
 That like a great wind from the West shall shake 
 The double throne. 
 
 Our colours flame upon the topmost mast, — 
 We lift the glove so arrogantly cast. 
 And in the much-abused, high name of God 
 We speak at last. 
 
 Another war alchemist is Mary Carolyn Davies, 
 poet of Oregon and Brooklyn. She knows both 
 coasts of America, she understands the American 
 spirit of idealism and self-sacrifice, and her verses 
 have a direct hitting power that will break open 
 the hardest heart. In her book, The Drums in 
 Our Street (1918), the glory and the tragedy of 
 the world- struggle are expressed in terms of in- 
 dividual feeling. There is decided inequality in 
 this volume, but the best pieces are so carefully 
 distributed among the commonplace that one must 
 read the whole work. 
 
 Harriet Monroe was born in Chicago and went 
 to school in Georgetown, D. C. In connection with 
 
HAEEIET MONEOE 283 
 
 the World's Exposition in Chicago she received 
 the honour of being formally invited to write a 
 poem for the dedication. Accordingly at the cere- 
 mony commemorating the four hundredth anni- 
 versary of the discovery of America, 21 October, 
 1892, her Columbian Ode was given with music. 
 
 Harriet Monroe's chief services to the art of 
 poetry are seen not so much in her creative work 
 as in her founding and editing of the magazine 
 called Poetry, of which I made mention in my re- 
 marks on Vachel Lindsay. In addition to this 
 monthly stimulation — ^which has proved of dis- 
 tinct value both in awakening general interest and 
 in giving new poets an opportunity to be heard, 
 Miss Monroe, with the assistance of Alice Corbin 
 Henderson, published in 1917 an anthology of 
 the new varieties of verse. Certain poets are 
 somewhat arbitrarily excluded, although their 
 names are mentioned in the Preface; the title of 
 the book is The New Poetry; the authors are 
 fairly represented, and with some sins of com- 
 mission the selections from each are made with 
 critical judgment. Every student of contempo- 
 rary verse should own a copy of this work. 
 
 In 1914 Miss Monroe produced a volume of her 
 original poems, called You and I. There are over 
 two hundred pages, and those who look in them 
 for something strange and startling will be dis- 
 appointed. Knowing the author's sympathy with 
 radicalism in art, and with all modern extremists, 
 the form of these verses is surprisingly conserva- 
 
284 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 tive. To be sure, the first one. The Hotel, is in a 
 kind of polyphonic prose, but it is not at all a 
 fair sample of the contents. Now whether the 
 reading of many manuscripts has dulled Miss 
 Monroe's creative power or not, who can say? 
 The fact is that most of these poems are in no 
 way remarkable either for feeling or expression, 
 and many of them fail to rise above the level of 
 the commonplace. There is happily no straining 
 for effect; but unhappily in most instances there 
 is no effect. 
 
 Alice Corbin (Mrs. Henderson) is a native of 
 Virginia and a resident of Chicago. She is co- 
 editor with Miss Monroe of The New Poetry an- 
 thology, wherein her own poems are represented. 
 These indicate skill in the manipulation of dif- 
 ferent metrical forms; and they reveal as well a 
 shrewd, healthy acceptance of life as it is. This 
 feeling communicates itself in a charming way to 
 the reader ; it is too vigorous for acquiescence, too 
 wise for blind optimism, but nearer optimism than 
 pessimism. It seems perhaps in certain aspects 
 to resemble the philosophy of Ealph Hodgson, 
 although his command of the art of poetry is be- 
 yond her range. 
 
 Sarah Norcliffe Cleghorn was born at Norfolk, 
 Virginia, on the fourth of February, 1876, but 
 since childhood has lived in Vermont. She 
 studied at Eadcliffe College, and has written much 
 verse and prose. In 1915 a number of her lyrics 
 were printed between the short stories in a volume 
 
SARAH CLEGHOEN 285 
 
 by lier friend, Dorothy Canfield,, called Eillsboro 
 People. In 1917 she published a book of verses, 
 Portraits and Protests, where the portraits are 
 better than the protests. No one has more truly 
 or more sympathetically expressed the spirit of 
 George Herbert's poetry than Miss Cleghom has 
 given it with a handful of words, in the lyric In 
 Bemerton Church. But she is above all a coun- 
 try mouse and a country muse; she knows her 
 Vermont neighbours to the skin and bone, and 
 brings out artistically the austere sweetness of 
 their daily lives. I think I like best of all her 
 work the poem 
 
 A SAINT'S HOURS 
 
 In the still cold before the sun, 
 Her matins Her brothers and her sisters small 
 
 She woke, and washed and dressed each one. 
 
 And through the morning hours all 
 Prime Singing above her broom she stood 
 
 And swept the house from haU to hall. 
 
 Then out she ran with tidings good, 
 Tierce Across the field and down the lane, 
 
 To share them with the neighbourhood. 
 
 Four miles she walked, and home again, 
 Sexts To sit through half the afternoon 
 
 And hear a feeble crone complain. 
 
 But when she saw the frosty moon 
 Nones And lakes of shadow on the hill. 
 
 Her maiden dreams grew bright as noon. 
 
286 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 She threw her pityiBg apron frill 
 Vespers Over a little trembling mouse 
 
 When the sleek cat yawned on the sill 
 
 In the late hours and drowsy house. 
 Evensong At last, too tired, beside her bed 
 
 She fell asleep — her prayers half said. 
 
 Is not this one of the high functions of poetry, 
 to interpret the life the poet knows best, and to 
 interpret it always in terms of the eleventh and 
 twelfth commandments? Observe she loves the 
 sister-mother, and she loves the mouse as well as 
 the cat. There is no reason why those who love 
 birds should not love cats as well; is a cat the 
 only animal who eats birds'? It is a diverting 
 spectacle, a man with his mouth full of squab, in- 
 sisting that cats should be exterminated. 
 
 A woman who has done much for the advance 
 of English poetry in America by her influence on 
 public critical opinion, is Jessie B. Rittenhouse. 
 She is a graduate of Genesee Wesleyan Seminary 
 in Lima, New York, taught Latin and English in 
 Illinois and in Michigan, and for five years was 
 busily engaged in journalism. In 1904 she pub- 
 lished a volume of criticism on contemporary 
 verse, and for the last fourteen years has printed 
 many essays of interpretation, dealing with the 
 new poets. I dare say no one in America is more 
 familiar with the English poetry of the twentieth 
 century than she. She has been so occupied with 
 this important and fruitful work that she has 
 
MARaARET WIDDEMER 287 
 
 had little time to compose original verse ; but any- 
 one who will read through her volume, The Door 
 of Dreams, Avill find it impossible not to admire 
 her lyrical gift. She has not yet shown enough 
 sustained power to give her a place with Anna 
 Hempstead Branch or with Sara Teasdale ; but she 
 has the capacity of putting much feeling into very 
 few words. 
 
 Margaret Widdemer, the daughter of a clergy- 
 man, was bom at Doylestown, Pennsylvania, and 
 was graduated from Drexel Institute Library 
 School in 1909. She has written verse and prose 
 from early childhood, but was not widely known 
 until the appearance of her poem Factories. In 
 1915 this was published in a book with other pieces, 
 and a revised, enlarged edition was printed in 
 1917, called by the name of the now-famous song, 
 and containing in addition nearly a hundred lyrics. 
 Although her soul is aflame at the omnipresence 
 of injustice in the world, her work covers a wide 
 range of thought and feeling. Her heart is swol- 
 len with pity for the sufferings of women ; but she 
 is no sentimentalist. There is an intellectual in- 
 dependence, a clear-headed womanly self-reliance 
 about her way of thinking and writing that is 
 both refreshing and stimulating. In hope and in 
 despair she speaks for the many thousands of 
 women, who first found their voice in Ibsen's 
 Doll's House; her poem. The Modern Woman to 
 Her Lover has a cleanly honesty without any 
 
288 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 strained pose. And although Factories is doubt- 
 less her masterpiece in its eloquent Inasmuch as 
 ye did it not, she can portray a raore quiet and 
 more lonely tragedy as well. Her poem called 
 The Two Dyings might have been named The 
 Heart Knoweth its own Bitterness. 
 
 I can remember once, ere I was dead, 
 The sorrow and the prayer and bitter cry 
 
 When they who loved me stood around the bed. 
 Watching till I should die : 
 
 They need not so have grieved their souls for me, 
 Grouped statue-like to count my failing breath — 
 
 Only one thought strove faintly, bitterly 
 With the kind drug of Death: 
 
 Ho'w' once upon a time, unwept, unknown, 
 
 Unhelped by pitying sigh or murmured prayer. 
 
 My youth died in slow agony alone 
 With none to watch or care. 
 
 Never in any period of the world's history was 
 the table of life so richly spread as in the years 
 1900-1914 ; women were just beginning to realize 
 that places ought to be reserved for them as well 
 as for men, when the war came, and there was no 
 place for any one except a place to fight the 
 Black Plague of Kaiserism; now when the war 
 is over, suppose the women insist? What then? 
 Before the French Revolution, only a few were 
 invited to sit down and eat, while the majority 
 were permitted to kneel and watch from a dis- 
 tance. A Frenchman once remarked, "The great 
 
CARL SANDBURG 289 
 
 appear to us great because we are kneeling — ^let 
 us rise." They rose, and out of the turmoil canae 
 an enormous enlargement of the dining-hall. 
 
 Carl Sandburg sings of Chicago with husky- 
 haughty lips. I like Chicago and I like poetry; 
 but I do not much care for the combination as il- 
 lustrated in Mr. Sandburg's volume, Chicago 
 Poems. I think it has been overrated. It is pre- 
 tentious rather than important. It is the raw ma- 
 terial of poetry, rather than the finished product. 
 Mere passion and imagination are not enough to 
 make a poet, even when accompanied by indigna- 
 tion. If feeling and appreciation could produce 
 poetry, then we should all be poets. But it is also 
 necessary to know how to write. 
 
 Carl Sandburg was born at Galesburg, Illinois, 
 on the sixth of January, 1878. He has "worked 
 his own way" through life with courage and am- 
 bition, performing any kind of respectable indoor 
 and outdoor toil that would keep him alive. In 
 the Spanish war, he immediately enlisted, and be- 
 longed to the first military company that went to 
 Porto Rico. In 1898 he entered Lombard College ; 
 after his Freshman year, he tried to enter West 
 Point, succeeding in every test — ^physical and men- 
 tal — except that of arithmetic; there he has my 
 hearty sympathy, for in arithmetic I was always 
 slow but not sure. He returned to Lombard, and 
 took the regular course for the next three years, 
 paying his way by hard work. His literary ambi- 
 
290 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 tion had already been awakened, and he attained 
 distinction among his mates. Since graduation, 
 he has had constant and varied experience in jour- 
 nalism. For a group of poems, of which the first 
 was Chicago, he was awarded the Levinson prize 
 as the best poem by an American that had ap- 
 peared in Poetrif during the year October 1913- 
 October 1914. In 1916 appeared a substantial 
 volume from his pen, called Chicago Poems. 
 
 His work gives one the impression of being 
 chaotic in form and content. Miss Lowell quotes 
 him as saying, "I don't know where I'm going, but 
 I'm on my way." According to Gr. K. Chester- 
 ton, this attitude was characteristic of modern Mfe 
 in general before the war. We don't know where 
 we're going, — but let's put on more speed. Per- 
 haps the other extreme, so characteristic of our 
 southern African friends, is no better, yet it has a 
 charm absent in the strenuosity of mere eagerness. 
 A Southern negro, being asked whither he was 
 going, replied "I aint goin' nowhar: Ise been done 
 gone whar I was goin'!" It would appear that 
 there is sufficient room between these extremes 
 for individual and social progress. 
 
 In manner Mr. Sandburg is closer to Walt Whit- 
 man than almost any other of our contemporary 
 poets. I do not call him an imitator, and certainly 
 he is no plagiarist ; but I like that part of his work 
 which is farthest removed from the manner of the 
 man of Camden. Walt Whitman was a genius; 
 and whilst it is quite possible and at times desir- 
 
CARL SANDBURG 291 
 
 able to imitate his freedom in composition, it is 
 not possible to catch the secret of his power. It 
 would be an ungracious task to quote Mr. Sand- 
 burg at his worst; we are all pretty bad at our 
 worst, whether we are poets or not; I prefer to 
 cite one of his poems which proves to me that 
 he is not only an original writer, but that he pos- 
 sesses a perceptive power of beauty that trans- 
 forms the commonplace into something of poig- 
 nant charm, like the song of the nightingale: 
 
 Desolate and lone 
 
 All night long on the lake 
 
 Where fog trails and mist creeps, 
 
 The whistle of a boat 
 
 Calls and cries unendingly, 
 
 Like some lost child 
 
 In tears and trouble 
 
 Hunting the harbour's breast 
 
 And the harbour's eyes. 
 
 He has a notable gift for effective poetic figures 
 of speech; in his Nocturne in a Deserted Brick- 
 yard, an old pond in the moonlight is a "wide 
 dreaming pansy." This and other pieces show 
 true power of poetic interpretation ; which makes 
 me believe that the author ought to and will 
 greatly surpass the average excellence exhibited 
 in Chicago Poems. 
 
 John Curtis Underwood is not only a dynamic, 
 but an insurgent poet and critic. He has pub- 
 lished four volumes of poems, The Iron Muse 
 (1910), Americans (1912), Processionals (1915), 
 and War Flames (1917). The roar of city streets 
 
292 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 and the deafening pounding of machinery resound 
 through his pages ; yet he somehow or other makes 
 a singing voice heard amid the din. In fact, he 
 uses the din as an accompaniment ; he is a kind of 
 vocal Tubal Cain. He writes about strap-hang- 
 ers, chorus girls, moving pictures, convicts, ho's- 
 pitals, bridge-builders and construction gangs — a 
 symphony of noise, where everybody plays some 
 instrument. He is no pessimist and he is not 
 sour; there are a good many "damns" and "hells" 
 in his verse, because, whatever he lacks, he does 
 not lack emphasis. His philosophy seems to be 
 similar to that of the last two stanzas of In 
 Memoriam, though Mr. Underwood expresses it 
 somewhat more concretely. 
 
 Leading the long procession through the midnight, 
 Man that was ether, fire, sea, germ and ape. 
 Out of the aeons blind of slime emerging, 
 Out of the aeons black where ill went groping, 
 Finding the fire, was fused to human shape. 
 
 Heading the dreary marches through dark ages; 
 Where the rest perished that the rest might be. 
 Out of the aeons raw and red of bloodshed, 
 Man that was caveman, found the stars. Forever 
 Man to the stars goes marching from the sea. 
 
 His poem Central, in which the telephone girl's 
 work is interpreted, is as typical as any of Mr. 
 Underwood's style; and no one, I think, can fail 
 to see the merit in his method. 
 
 Though men may build their bridges high and plant their piers 
 below the sea, 
 
JOHN a. NEIHAEDT 293 
 
 And drive their trains across the sky; a higher task is left to 
 
 me. 
 I bridge the void 'twixt soul and soul; I bring the longing 
 
 lovers near. 
 I draw you to your spirit's goal. I serve the ends of fraud 
 
 and fear. 
 
 The older fates sat in the sun. The cords they spun were 
 
 short and slight. 
 I set my stitches one by one, where life electric fetters night, 
 Till it outstrips the planet's speed, and out of darkness leaps 
 
 to day; 
 And men in Maine shall hear and heed a voice from San 
 
 Prancisco Bay. 
 
 There is such a display of cynical cleverness in 
 the verse of T. S. Eliot that I think he might be 
 able to write almost anything except poetry. He 
 has an aggressive champion in the distinguished 
 novelist, May Sinclair, who says his best work is 
 equal to the best of Eobert Browning. 
 
 John G. Neihardt was born in Hlinois on the 
 eighth of January, 1881. From 1901 to 1907 he 
 lived among the Nebraska Indians, studying their 
 folklore and characteristics. He has published a 
 number of books, of which the best is perhaps A 
 Bundle of Myrrh, 1907. In 1915 he produced an 
 epic of the American Fur Trade, preparing him- 
 self for the task as follows: "I descended the 
 Missouri in an open boat, and also ascended the 
 Yellowstone for a considerable distance. On the 
 upper river the country was practically un- 
 changed; and for one familiar with what had 
 taken place there, it was no difficult feat of the 
 imagination to revive the details of that time — 
 
294 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 the men, tlie trails, the boats, the trading posts 
 where veritable satraps once ruled under the 
 sway of the American Fur Company. ' ' 
 
 I heartily envy him these experiences; to me 
 every river is an adventure, even the quiet, serious 
 old Connecticut. 
 
 Yet the poem that resulted from these visions is 
 not remarkable. Nothing, I suppose, is more dif- 
 ficult than to write a good long poem. Poe dis- 
 approved of the undertaking in itself; and only 
 men of undoubted genius have succeeded, whereas 
 writers of hardly more than ordinary talent have 
 occasionally turned off something combining 
 brevity and excellence. I feel sure that Mr. Nei- 
 hardt talks about this journey more impressively 
 than he writes about it. His love lyrics, in A 
 Bundle of Myrrh, are much better. The ten- 
 dency to eroticism is redeemed by sincerity of 
 feeling. 
 
 Charles Wharton Stork was born at Philadel- 
 phia, on the twelfth of February, 1881, and 
 studied at Haverford, Harvard, and the Univer- 
 sity of Pennsylvania. He is a scholar, a member 
 of the English Faculty of the University of Penn- 
 sylvania, and has made many translations of 
 Scandinavian poems. Always interested in mod- 
 ern developments of poetry, both in America and 
 Europe, he is at present the editor of Contem- 
 porary Verse, a monthly magazine exclusively 
 made up of original poems. This periodical has 
 been of considerable assistance to students of con- 
 
M. L. FISHEE 295 
 
 temporary poetry, for it has given an oppor- 
 tunity to hitherto unknown writers, and often it 
 contains some notable contribution from men of 
 established reputation. Thus the number for 
 April, 1918, may some day have bibliographical 
 value, since it leads off with a remarkable poem 
 by Vachel Lindsay, The Eyes of Queen Esther. 
 I advise collectors to secure this, and to subscribe 
 to the magazine. Mr. Stork has written much 
 verse himself, of which Flying Fish: an Ode, may 
 be taken as illustrative of his originality and im- 
 agination. 
 
 Another excellent magazine of contemporary 
 poetry is The Sonnet, edited and published by 
 Mahlon Leonard Fisher, at Williamsport, Penn- 
 sylvania, of which the first number bears the date 
 February, 1917. This appears bimonthly; and 
 while the attempt to publish any magazine what- 
 ever displays courage, Mr. Fisher is apparently 
 on the side of the conservatives in art. "We 
 have attempted no propagandism, and acknowl- 
 edged no revolution," is the sentence that forms 
 the signature to his periodical. Furthermore, we 
 are informed that "the sole aim of The Sonnet is 
 to publish poetry so well thought of by its makers 
 that they were willing to place it within strict con- 
 fines. The magazine will have nothing to say in 
 defence of its name. It will neither attack nor 
 respond to attacks." It has certainly printed 
 some good sonnets, among which are many by the 
 editor. In 1917 appeared a beautiful little vol- 
 
296 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 ume, limited to two hundred copies, and pub- 
 lished by the author — Sonnets: a First Series. 
 Fifty specimens are included, all written by Mr. 
 Fisher. More than a few have grace and truth. 
 
 A new aspirant appeared in 1917 with his first 
 volume, Streets and Faces. This is Scudder Mid- 
 dleton, brother of George Middleton, the dram- 
 atist. He was born at New York, on the ninth of 
 September, 1888, and studied at Columbia. His 
 little book of poetry contains nothing profound, 
 yet there is evidence of undoubted talent which 
 gives me hope. The best poem of his that I have 
 seen was published in Contemporary Verse in 
 1917, and makes a fine recessional to Mr. Braith- 
 waite's Anthology. 
 
 THE POETS 
 
 We need you now, strong guardians of our hearts, 
 
 Now, when a darkness lies on sea and land, 
 When we of weakening faith forget our parts 
 
 And bow before the falling of the sand. 
 Be with us now or we betray our trust 
 
 And say, "There is no wisdom but in death" — 
 Remembering lovely eyes now closed with dust — 
 
 "There is no beauty that outlasts the breath." 
 For we are growing blind and cannot see, 
 
 Beyond the clouds that stand like prison bars, 
 The changeless regions of our empery. 
 
 Where once we moved in friendship with the stars. 
 O children of the light, now in our grief 
 Give us again the solace of belief. 
 
 A young Princeton student, John Peale Bishop, 
 First Lieutenant of Infantry in the Officers Ee- 
 
WILLIAM ASPENWALL BRADLEY 297 
 
 serve Corps, wlio studied the art of verse under 
 the instruction of Alfred Noyes, published in 1917 
 a little book of original poems, with the modest 
 title. Green Fruit. These were mostly written 
 during his last undergraduate year at college, and 
 would not perhaps have been printed now had he 
 not entered the service. The subjects range from 
 the Princeton Inn to Italy. Mr. Bishop is a clear- 
 voiced singer, and there are original songs here, 
 which owe nothing to other poets. Such a poem 
 as Mushrooms is convincing proof of ability; and 
 there is an excellent spirit in him. 
 
 William Aspenwall Bradley was born at Hart- 
 ford, Connecticut, on the eighth of February, 1878. 
 He was a special student at Harvard, and took his 
 bachelor's and master's degrees at Columbia. He 
 is now in the Grovernment War Service. He wrote 
 an admirable Life of Bryant in the English Men of 
 Letters series, and has made many scholarly con- 
 tributions to the literature of criticism. He has 
 issued two volumes of original verse, of which per- 
 haps the better known is Old Christmas, 1917. 
 This is composed of tales of the Cumberland 
 region in Kentucky. These poem-stories are not 
 only full of dramatic power, comic and tragic, but 
 they contain striking portraits. I think, however, 
 that I like best Mr. Bradley's nature-pictures. 
 The pleasure of recognition will be felt by every- 
 one who reads the first few lines of 
 
298 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 AUTUMN 
 
 Now shorter grow November days, 
 And leaden ponds begin to glaze 
 With their first ice, while every night 
 The hoarfrost leaves the meadows white 
 Like wimples spread upon the lawn 
 By maidens who are up at dawn, 
 And sparkUng diamonds may be seen 
 Strewing the close-clipped golfing green. 
 But the slow sun dispels at noon 
 The season's work begun too soon. 
 Bidding faint filmy mists arise 
 And fold in softest draperies 
 The distant woodlands bleak and bare. 
 Until they seem to melt in air. 
 
 William Griffiths was born at Memphis, Mis- 
 souri, on the fifteenth of February 1876, and re- 
 ceived his education at the public schools. He 
 has been a "newspaper man" and magazine edi- 
 tor, and has produced a number of books in verse 
 and prose, of which the best example is City Pas- 
 torals, originally published in 1915, revised and 
 reissued in 1918. The title of this book appears 
 to be a paradox; but its significance is clear 
 enough after one has read a few pages. It is an 
 original and interesting way of bringing the 
 breath of the country into the town. The scene 
 is a New York Club on a side street ; the year is 
 1914; the three speakers are Brown, Gray, Green; 
 the four divisions are Spring, Summer, Autumn, 
 Winter. The style is for the most part rimed 
 stanzas in short metre, which go trippingly on the 
 tongue. Grace and delicacy characterize the pic- 
 
WILLIAM GRIFFITHS 299 
 
 tures of the country that the men bring back to the 
 smoky city from their travels. 
 
 Occultly through a riven cloud 
 
 The ancient river shines again, 
 Still wandering like a silver road 
 
 Among the cities in the plain. 
 
 On far horizons softly lean 
 The hills against the coming night; 
 
 And mantled with a russet green, 
 The orchards gather into sight. 
 
 Through apples hanging high and low', 
 
 In ruddy colours, deeply spread 
 From core to rind, the sun melts slow. 
 
 With gold upeaught against the red. 
 
 And here and there, with sighs and calls, 
 
 Among the hills an echo rings 
 Remotely as the water falls 
 
 And down the meadow softly sings. 
 
 A wind goes by; the air is stirred 
 With secret whispers far and near; 
 
 Another token — just a word 
 
 Had made the rose's meaning clear. 
 
 I see the fields; I catch the scent 
 
 Of pine cones and the fresh split wood. 
 
 Where bearded moss and stains are blent 
 With autumn rains — and all is good. 
 
 An air, arising, turns and lifts 
 
 The fallen leaves where they had lain 
 
 Beneath the trees, then weakly shifts 
 And slowly settles back again. 
 
 While with far shouts, now homeward bound, 
 
 Across the fields the reapers go ; 
 And, with the darkness closing round, 
 
 The lilies of the twilight blow. 
 
300 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 Many of the other poems in this volume, that 
 follow the City Pastorals, are interpretations of 
 various individuals and of various nationalities. 
 Mr. Griffith has a gift for the making of epigrams ; 
 and indeed he has studied concision in all his 
 work. It may be that this is a result of his long 
 years of training in journalism; he must have 
 silently implored the writers of manuscripts he 
 was forced to read to leave their damnable faces 
 and begin. Certain it is, that although he can 
 write smoothly flowing music, there is hardly a 
 page in his whole book that does not contain 
 some idea worth thinking about. His wine of 
 Cyprus has both body and bouquet. 
 
 Three professional teachers of youth who write 
 poetry as an avocation are John Erskine, pro- 
 fessor at Columbia, whose poems bear the impress 
 of an original and powerful personality, William 
 EUery Leonard, professor in the University of 
 Wisconsin, the author of a number of volumes of 
 poems, some of which show originality in concep- 
 tion and style, and William Thornton Whitsett, of 
 Whitsett Institute, Wliitsett, North Carolina, 
 whose book Saber and Song (1917), exhibits such 
 variations in merit that if one read only a few 
 pages one might be completely deceived as to the 
 author's actual ability. His besetting sin as an 
 artist is moralizing. Fully half the contents of 
 the volume are uninspired, commonplace, flat. 
 But when he forgets to preach, he can write true 
 poetry. He has the lyrical gift to a high degree, 
 
HELEN HAY WHITNEY 301 
 
 and has a rather remarkable command of the tech- 
 nique of the art. An Ode to Expression, The Soul 
 of the Sea, and some of the Sonnets, fully justify 
 their publication. The author is rather too fond 
 of the old "poetic diction"; he might do well to 
 study simplicity. 
 
 A poet who differs from the two last mentioned 
 in her ability to maintain a certain level of excel- 
 lence is Helen Hay Whitney. She perhaps in- 
 herited her almost infallible good taste and liter- 
 ary tact from her distinguished father, that wholly 
 admirable person, John Hay. His greatness as 
 an international statesman was matched by the 
 extraordinary charm of his character, which ex- 
 pressed itself in everything he wrote, and in 
 numberless acts of kindness. He was the ideal 
 American gentleman. One feels in reading the 
 poems of Mrs. Whitney that each one is written 
 both creatively and critically. I mean that she 
 has the primal impulse to write, but that in writ- 
 ing, and more especially in revising, every line 
 is submitted to her own severe scrutiny. I am 
 not sure that she has not destroyed some of her 
 best work,, though this is of course only conjecture. 
 At all events, while she makes no mistakes, I 
 sometimes feel that there is too much repression. 
 She is one of our best American sonnet-writers. 
 Such a poem as After Rain is a work of art. 
 
 Corinne Eoosevelt Robinson (Mrs. Douglas 
 Eobinson, sister of Theodore Roosevelt) has pub- 
 lished two volumes of poems, The Call of Broth- 
 
302 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 erhood, 1912, and One Woman to Another, 1914. 
 I hope that she will speedily collect in a third book 
 the fugitive pieces printed in various magazines 
 since 1914. Mrs. Rohinson's pt)etry comes from a 
 full mind and a full heart. There is the knowl- 
 edge bom of experience combined with spiritual 
 revelation. She is an excellent illustration of 
 the possibility of living to the uttermost in the 
 crowded avenues of the world without any loss of 
 religious or moral values. It must take a strong 
 nature to absorb so much of the strenuous activi- 
 ties of metropolitan society while keeping the 
 heart's sources as clear as a mountain spring. It 
 is the exact opposite of asceticism, yet seems not 
 to lose anything important gained by the ascetic 
 vocation. She does not serve God and Mammon : 
 she serves God, and makes Mammon serve her. 
 This complete roundness and richness of develop- 
 ment could not have been accomplished except 
 through pain. She expresses grief's contribution 
 in the following sonnet : 
 
 Beloved, from the hour that you were bom 
 I loved you with the love whose birth is pain ; 
 And now, that I have lost you, I must mourn 
 With mortal anguish, bom of love again; 
 And so I know that Love and Pain are one, 
 Yet not one single joy would I forego. — 
 The very radiance of the tropic sun 
 Makes the dark night but darker here below. 
 Mine is no coward soul to count the cost; 
 The coin of love with lavish hand I spend. 
 And though the sunlight of my life is lost 
 And I must walk in shadow to the end, — 
 
WITTEE BYNNER 303 
 
 I gladly press the cross against my heart — 
 And welcome Pain, that is Love's counterpart 1 
 
 Meredith Nicholson, the American novelist, like 
 Mr. Galsworthy, Mr. Phillpotts and many other 
 novelists in England, has published a volume of 
 original verse, Poems, 1906. It is possibly a sign 
 of the growing interest in poetry that so many 
 who have won distinction in prose should in 
 these latter days strive for the laurel crown. Mr. 
 Nicholson's poems are a kind of riming journal 
 of his heart. It is clear that he is not a bom 
 poet, for the flame of inspiration is not in these 
 pages, nor do we find the perfect phrase or ravish- 
 ing music ; what we do have is well worth preser- 
 vation in print — the manly, dignified, imaginative 
 speculations of a clear and honest mind. Fur- 
 thermore, although he writes verse with his left 
 hand, there is displayed in many of these pieces 
 a mastery of the exact meaning of words, at- 
 tained possibly by his long years of training in 
 the other harmony of prose. 
 
 Witter Bynner — the spelling of whose name I 
 defy any one to remember, and envelopes ad- 
 dressed to him must be a collection of curiosities 
 — was bom at Brooklyn on the tenth of August, 
 1881. He was graduated from Harvard in 1902, 
 and addressed his Alma Mater in an Ode To Har- 
 vard, published in book form in 1907. In 1917 he 
 collected in one attractive volume, Grenstone 
 Poems, the best of his production — exclusive of 
 his plays and prose — up to that date. One who 
 
304 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 knew Mr. Bynner only by the terrific white slave 
 drama Tiger, would be quite unprepared for the 
 sylvan sweetness of the Grenstone poems. 
 Their environment, mainly rural, does not localize 
 the sentiment overmuch; for the poet's mind is a 
 kingdom, even though he is bounded in a nutshell. 
 The environment, however, may be partly respon- 
 sible for the spirit of healthy cheerfulness that 
 animates these verses; whatever they lack, they 
 certainly do not lack purity and charm. Far 
 from the madding crowd the singer finds con- 
 tentment, which is the keynote of these songs; 
 happiness built on firm indestructible founda- 
 tions. Some of the divisional titles indicate the 
 range of subjects : Neighbors and the Country- 
 side, Children and Death, Wisdom and Unwisdom, 
 Celia, Away from Grenstone, where homesickness 
 is expressed while travelling in the Far East. 
 And the tone is clearly sounded in 
 
 A GRACE BEFORE THE POEMS 
 
 "Is there such a place as Grenstone?" 
 
 Celia, hear them ask ! 
 Tell me, shall we share it with them? — 
 
 Shall we let them breathe and bask 
 
 On the windy, sunny pasture, 
 
 Where the hill-top turns its face 
 Toward the valley of the mountain, 
 
 Our beloved place? 
 
 Shall we show them through our churchyard, 
 
 With its crumbling wall 
 Set between the dead and living? 
 
 Shall our willowed waterfall. 
 
PERCY MACKAYE 305 
 
 Huckleberries, pines and bluebirds 
 
 Be a secret we shall share ? — 
 If they make but little of it, 
 
 Celia, shall we care? 
 
 It will be seen that the independence of Mr. 
 Bynner is quite different from the independence of 
 Mr. Underwood ; but they both have the secret of 
 self-sufificiency. 
 
 Another loyal Harvard poet is Herman Hage- 
 dorn, who was born at New York in 1682, and 
 took his degree at college in 1907. For some time 
 he was on the English Faculty at Harvard, and 
 has a scholar's knowledge of English literature. 
 He has published plays and books of verse, of 
 which the best known are A Troop of the Guard 
 (1909) and Poems and Ballads, which appeared 
 the same year. He has a good command of lyrical 
 expression, which ought to enable him in the years 
 to come to produce work of richer content than 
 his verses have thus far shown. 
 
 The best known of the Harvard poets of the 
 twentieth century is Percy Mackaye, who is still 
 better known as a playwright and maker of 
 pageants. He was born at New York, on the six- 
 teenth of March, 1875, and was graduated from 
 Harvard in 1897. He has travelled much in Eu- 
 rope, and has given many lectures on dramatic 
 art in America. His poetry may be collectively 
 studied in one volume of appalling avoirdupois, 
 published in 1916. It takes a strong wrist to 
 hold it, but it is worth the effort. 
 
306 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 The chief difficulty with Mr. Mackaye is his in- 
 ability to escape from his opinions. He is far 
 too self-conscions, much too much preoccupied 
 with theory, both in drama and in poetry. He can 
 write nothing without explaining his motive, with- 
 out trying to show himself and others the aim of 
 poetry and drama. However morally noble all 
 this may be — and it surely is that — it hampers the 
 author. I wish he could for once completely for- 
 get all artistic propaganda, completely forget him- 
 self, and give his Muse a chance. "She needs no 
 introduction to this audience. ' ' 
 
 There is no doubt that he has something of the 
 divine gift. His Centenary Ode on Lincoln, pub- 
 lished separately in 1909, was the best out of all 
 the immense number of effusions I read that year. 
 He rose to a great occasion. 
 
 One of his most original pieces is the dog-vivi- 
 section poem, called The Heart in the Jar. There 
 is a tumultuous passion in it almost overpower- 
 ing; and no one but a true poet could ever have 
 thought of or have employed such symbolism. 
 Mr. Mackaye 's mind is so alert, so inquisitive, so 
 volcanic, that he seems to me always just about 
 to produce something that shall surpass his pre- 
 vious efforts. I have certainly not lost faith in 
 his future. 
 
 John Gould Fletcher was bom at Little Rock, 
 Arkansas, in 1886. He studied at Andover and at 
 Harvard, and has lived much in London. He has 
 become identified with the Imagists. Personally 
 
CONRAD AIKEN 307 
 
 I -wish that Mr. Fletcher would use his remark- 
 able power to create gorgeous imagery in the 
 production of orthodox forms of verse. Free 
 verse ought to be less monotonous than constantly 
 repeated sonnets, quatrains, and stanza-forms; 
 but the fact is just the other way. A volume 
 made up entirely of free verse, unless written by 
 a man of genius, has a capacity to bore the reader 
 that at times seems almost criminal. 
 
 Conrad Aiken was bom at Savannah, Georgia, 
 on the fifth of August, 1889, is a graduate of Har- 
 vard and lives in Boston. He has published sev- 
 eral volumes of poems, among which Earth Tri- 
 umphant (1914) is representative of his ability 
 and philosophy. It certainly represents his abil- 
 ity more fairly than The Jig of Forslin (1916), 
 which is both pretentious and dull. I suspect few 
 persons have read every page of it. I have. 
 
 Not yet thirty, Mr. Aiken is widely known ; but 
 the duration of his fame will depend upon his 
 future work. He has thus far shown the power to 
 write melodious music, to paint nature pictures 
 in warm colours ; he is ever on the quest of Beauty. 
 His sensible preface to Earth Triumphant calls 
 attention to certain similarities between his style 
 in verse-narrative and that of John Masefield. 
 But he is not a copier, and his work is his own. 
 Some poets are on the earth ; some are in the air ; 
 some, like Shelley, are in the aether. Conrad 
 Aiken is firmly, gladly on the earth. He believes 
 that our only paradise is here and now. 
 
308 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 He surely has the gift of singing speech, but his 
 poetry lacks intellectual content. In the volume, 
 Nocturne of Remembered Spring (1917), there is a 
 dreamy charm, like the hesitating notes of Chopin. 
 
 Although his contribution to the advance of 
 poetry is not important, he has the equipment 
 of a poet. When he has more to say, he will 
 have no difiiculty in making us listen ; for he un- 
 derstands the magic of words. Thus tar his 
 poems are something like librettos; they don't 
 mean much without the music. Let him remem- 
 ber the bitter cry of old Henry Vaughan: every 
 artist, racked by labour-pains, will understand 
 what Vaughan meant by calling this piece 
 Angmsh: 
 
 ! 'tis an easy thing 
 To write and sing; 
 But to write true, unfeigned verse 
 Is very hard 1 O God, disperse 
 These weights, and give my spirit leave 
 To act as well as to conceive ! 
 
 Among our young American poets there are 
 few who have inherited in richer or purer measure 
 than William Alexander Percy. He was born at 
 Greenville, Mississippi, on the fourth of May, 
 1885, and studied at the University of the South 
 and at the Harvard Law School. He is now in 
 military service. In 1915, his volume of poems, 
 Sappho in Leukas, attracted immediately the at- 
 tention of discriminating critics. The prologue 
 shows that noble devotion to art, that high faith 
 in it, entirely beyond the understanding of the 
 
WILLIAM ALEXANDER PERCY 309 
 
 Philistine, but wMch awakens an instant and 
 accurate vibration in the heart of every lover of 
 poetry. 
 
 singing heart, think not of aught save song; 
 
 Beauty can do no ■wrong. 
 Let but th' inviolable music shake 
 Golden on golden flake, 
 Down to the human throng. 
 And one, one surely, -will look up, and hear and wake. 
 
 Weigh not the rapture; measure not nor sift 
 
 God's dark, delirious gift; 
 But deaf to immortality or gain. 
 
 Give as the shining rain, 
 
 Thy music pure and swift, 
 And here or there, sometime, somewhere, 'twill reach the grain. 
 
 There is a wide range of subjects in this volume, 
 Greek, mediaeval, and modern — inspiration from, 
 books and inspiration from outdoors. But there 
 is not a single poem that could be called crude or 
 flat. Mr. Percy is a poet and an artist; he can 
 be ornate and he can be severe; but in both 
 phases there is a dignity not always characteristic 
 of contemporary verse. I do not prophesy — but 
 
 1 feel certain of this man. 
 
 One day in 1917, I clipped a nameless poem 
 from a daily newspaper, and carried it in my 
 pocketbook for months. Later I discovered that 
 it was written by Mr. Percy, and had first ap- 
 peared in The Bellman. I know of no poem by 
 any American published in the year 1917 that for 
 combined beauty of thought and beauty of expres- 
 sion is superior to this little masterpiece. 
 
310 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 OVERTONES 
 
 I heard a bird at break of day 
 
 Sing from the autumn trees 
 A song so mystical and cahn, 
 
 So full of certainties, 
 No man, I think, could listen long 
 
 Except upon his knees. 
 Yet this was but a simple bird, 
 
 Alone, among dead trees. 
 
 Alan Seeger — whose heroic death glorified his 
 youth — was born at New York on the twenty-sec- 
 ond of June, 1888. He studied at Harvard ; then 
 lived in Paris, and no one has ever loved Paris 
 more than he. He enlisted in the Foreign Legion 
 of France at the outbreak of the war in 1914, and 
 fell on the fourth of July, 1916. His letters show 
 his mind and heart clearly. 
 
 He knew his poetry was good, and that it would 
 not die with his body. In the last letter he wrote, 
 we find these words : "I will write you soon if I 
 get through all right. If not, my only earthly 
 care is for my poems. Add the ode I sent you 
 and the three sonnets to my last volume and you 
 will have opera omnia quae existant." 
 
 He wrote his autobiography in one of his last 
 sonnets, paying poetic tribute to Philip Sidney — 
 lover of woman, lover of battle, lover of art. 
 
 Sidney, in whom the heydey of romance 
 Came to its precious and most perfect flower, 
 Whether you tourneyed with victorious lance 
 Or brought sweet roundelays to Stella's bower. 
 
ALAN SEEGER 311 
 
 I give myself some credit for the way 
 
 I have kept clean of what enslaves and lowers, 
 
 Shunned the ideals of our present day 
 
 And studied those that were esteemed in yours; 
 
 For, turning from the mob that buys Success 
 
 By sacrificing all life's better part, 
 
 Down the free roads of human happiness 
 
 I frolicked, poor of purse but light of heart, 
 
 And lived in strict devotion all along 
 
 To my three idols — Love and Arms and Song. 
 
 His most famous poem, I Have a Rendezvous 
 with Death, is almost intolerably painful in its 
 tragic beauty, in its contrast between the dark- 
 ness of the unchanging shadow and the apple-blos- 
 soms of the sunny air — above all, because we read 
 it after both Youth and Death have kept their 
 word, and met at the place appointed. 
 
 He was an inspired poet. Poetry came from 
 him as naturally as rain from clouds. His mag- 
 nificent Ode in Memory of the American Volun- 
 teers Fallen in France has a nobility of phrase 
 that matches the elevation of thought. Work like 
 this cannot be forgotten. 
 
 Alan Seeger was an Elizabethan. He had a 
 consuming passion for beauty — ^his only religion. 
 He loved women and he loved war, like the gallant, 
 picturesque old soldiers of fortune. There was 
 no pose in all this ; his was a brave, uncalculating, 
 forthright nature, that gave everything he had 
 and was, without a shade of fear or a shade of 
 regret. He is one of the most fiery spirits of our 
 time, and like Eupert Brooke, he will be thought 
 of as immortally young. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 A GROUP OF YALE POETS 
 
 Henry A. Beers — the fine quality of his literary style in 
 prose and verse — force and grace — finished art — his humour — i 
 C. M. Lewis — his war poem — E. B. Reed — Lyra Yalensis — 
 F. E. Pierce — his farm lyrics — Brian Hooker — his strong 
 sonnets — his Turns — R. C. Rogers — The Rosary — Rupert 
 Hughes — novelist, playwright, musician, poet — Robert Mun- 
 ger — his singing — R. B. Glaenzer — his fancies — Benjamin R. 
 C. Low — his growth — William R. Benet — his vitality and op- 
 timism — Arthur Colton — his Chaucer poem — Allan Updegraff 
 - — The Time and the Place — Lee Wilson Dodd — his develop- 
 ment — a list of other Yale Poets — Stephen V. Benet. 
 
 During the twentieth century there has been 
 flowing a fountain of verse from the faculty, young 
 alumni, and undergraduates of Yale University; 
 and I reserve this space at the end of my book for 
 a consideration of the Yale group of poets, some 
 of whom are already widely known and some of 
 whom seem destined to be. I am not thinldng of 
 magazine verse or of fugitive pieces, but only of 
 independent volumes of original poems. Yale 
 has always been close to the national life of 
 America; and the recent outburst of poetiy from 
 her sons is simply additional evidence of the re- 
 naissance all over the United States. Anyhow, 
 the fact is worth recording. 
 
 Professor Henry A. Beers was bom at Buffalo 
 on the second of July, 1847. He was admitted to 
 
 312 
 
A GROUP OF YALE POETS 313 
 
 the New York Bar in 1870, but in 1871 became an 
 Instructor in English Literature at Yale, teach- 
 ing continuously for forty-five years, when he 
 retired. He has written — at too rare intervals — 
 all his life. His book of short stories, containing 
 A Suburban Pastoral and Split Zephyr, the last- 
 named being, according to Meredith Nicholson, 
 the best story of college life ever printed, would 
 possibly have attracted more general attention 
 were it not for its prevailing tone of quiet, unob- 
 trusive pessimism, an unwelcome note in America. 
 I am as sure of the high quality of A Suburban 
 Pastoral as I am sure of anything; and have never 
 found a critic who, after reading the tale, dis- 
 agreed with me. In 1885 Professor Beers pub- 
 lished a little volume of poems. The Thankless 
 Muse; and in 1917 he collected in a thin book The 
 Two Twilights, the best of his youthful and ma- 
 ture poetic production. The variety of expres- 
 sion is so great that no two poems are in the same 
 mood. In Love, Death, and Life we have one of 
 the most passionate love-poems in American lit- 
 erature ; in The Pasture Bars the valediction has 
 the soft, pure tone of a silver bell. 
 
 Professor Beers has both vigour and grace. 
 His fastidious taste permits him to write little, 
 and to print only a small part of what he writes. 
 But the force of his poetic language is so exti-aor- 
 dinary that it has sometimes led to a complete and 
 unfortunate misinterpretation of his work. In 
 The Dying Pantheist to the Priest, he wrote a 
 
314 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 poem as purely dramatic, as non-personal, as the 
 monologues of Browning; he quite successfully 
 represented the attitude of an (imaginary) de- 
 fiant, unrepentant pagan to an (imaginary) priest 
 who wished to save him in his last moments. The 
 speeches put into the mouth of the pantheist no 
 more represent Mr. Beers 's own sentiments 
 than Browning's poem Confessions represented 
 Browning's attitude toward death and religion; 
 yet it is perhaps a tribute to the fervour of the 
 lyric that many readers have taken it as a violent 
 attack on Christian theology. 
 
 Just as I am certain of the finished art of A 
 Suburban Pastoral, I am equally certain of the 
 beauty and nobility of the poetry in The Tivo Twi- 
 lights. This volume gives its author an earned 
 place in the front rank of living American poets. 
 
 To me one of the most original and charming of 
 the songs is the valediction to New York — and the 
 homage to New Haven. 
 
 NUNC DIMITTIS 
 
 Highlands of Navesink, 
 By the blue ocean's brink, 
 Let your grey bases drink 
 
 Deep of the sea. 
 Tide that comes flooding up, 
 Fill me a stirrup cup, 
 Pledge me a parting sup. 
 
 Now I go free. 
 
 Wall of the Palisades, 
 
 I know where greener glades. 
 
 Deeper glens, darker shades. 
 
A GEOUP OF YALE POETS 315 
 
 Hemlock and pine, 
 Far toward the morning lie 
 Under a bluer sky, 
 Lifted by cliffs as high. 
 
 Haunts that are mine. 
 
 Marshes of Hackensack, 
 See, I am going back 
 Where the Quinnipiae 
 
 Winds to the bay, 
 Down its long meadow" track, 
 Piled in the myriad stack. 
 Where in wide bivouac 
 
 Camps the salt hay. 
 
 Spire of old Trinity, 
 Never again to be 
 Seamark and goal to me 
 
 As I walk down; 
 Chimes on the upper air, 
 Calling in vain to prayer. 
 Squandering your music where 
 
 Eoars the black town : 
 
 Bless me once ere I ride 
 Off to God's countryside. 
 Where in the treetops hide 
 
 Belfry and bell; 
 Tongues of the steeple towers, 
 Telling the slow-paced hours — 
 Hail, thou still town of ours — 
 
 Bedlam, farewell ! 
 
 Those who are familiar with Professor Beers 's 
 humour, as expressed in The Ways of Yale, will 
 wish that he had preserved also in this later book 
 some of his whimsicalities, as in the poem A Fish 
 Story, which begins : 
 
316 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 A whale of great porosity, 
 
 And small specific gravity, 
 Dived down with much velocity 
 
 Beneath the sea's concavity. 
 
 But soon the weight of water 
 Squeezed in his fat immensity. 
 
 Which varied — as it ought to — 
 Inversely as his density. 
 
 Professor Charlton M. Lewis was bora at 
 Brooklyn on the fourth of March, 1866. He took 
 his B.A. at Yale in 1886, and an LL.B at Colum- 
 bia in 1889. For some years he was a practising 
 lawyer in New York ; in 1895 he became a member 
 of the Yale Faculty. In 1903 he published 
 Gawayne and the Green Knight, a long poem, in 
 which humour and imagination are delightfully 
 mingled. His lyric Pro Patrm (1917) is a good 
 illustration of his poetic powers ; it is indeed one 
 of America's finest literary contributions to the 
 war. 
 
 PRO PATRIA 
 
 Remember, as the flaming car 
 
 Of ruin nearer rolls. 
 That of our country's substance are 
 
 Our bodies and our souls. 
 
 Her dust we are, and to her dust 
 
 Our ashes shall descend: 
 Who craves a lineage more august 
 
 Or a diviner end? 
 
 By blessing of her fruitful dews. 
 Her suns and winds and rains. 
 
 We have her granite in our theWs, 
 Her iron in our veins. 
 
A GROUP OF YALE POETS 317 
 
 And, sleeping in her sacred earth, 
 
 The ever-living dead 
 On the dark miracle of birth 
 
 Their holy influence shed. . . . 
 
 So, in the faith our fathers kept, 
 
 We live, and long to die; 
 To sleep forever, as they have slept, 
 
 Under a sunlit sky; 
 
 Close-folded to our mother's heart 
 
 To find our souls' release — 
 A secret coetemal part 
 
 Of her eternal peace; — 
 
 Where Hood, Saint Helen's and Rainier, 
 
 In vestal raiment, keep 
 Inviolate through the varying year 
 
 Their immemorial sleep; 
 
 Or where the meadow-lark, in coy 
 
 But calm profusion, pours 
 The liquid fragments of his joy 
 
 On old colonial shores. 
 
 Professor Edward B. Reed, B.A. 1694, pub- 
 lished in 1913 a tiny volume of academic verse, 
 called Lyra Yalensis. This contains happily hu- 
 morous comment on college life and college cus- 
 toms, and as the entire edition was almost imme- 
 diately sold, the book has already become some- 
 thing of a rarity. In 1917, he collected the best of 
 his more ambitious work in Sea Moods, of which 
 one of the most impressive is 
 
 THE DAWN 
 
 He shook his head as he turned away — 
 
 "Is it life or death?" "We shall know by day." 
 
318 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 Out from the wards where the sick folk lie, 
 Out neath the black and bitter sky. 
 Past one o'clock and the wind is chill, 
 The snow-clad streets are ghostly stiU; 
 No friendly noise, no cheering light. 
 So calm the city sleeps to-night, 
 I think its soul has taken flight. 
 
 Back to the empty home — a thrill, 
 
 A shudder at its darkened sill, 
 
 Tor the clock chimes as on that mom. 
 
 That happy day when she was bom. 
 
 And now, inexorably slow, 
 
 To life or death the hours go. 
 
 Time's wings are clipped; he scarce doth creep. 
 
 Tonight no drug could bring you sleep; 
 
 Watch at the window for the day; 
 
 'Tis all that's left — to watch and pray. 
 
 But I think the prayer of an anguished heart 
 
 Must pierce that bleak sky like a dart, 
 
 And tear that pall of clouds apart. 
 
 The poplars, edging the frozen lawn, 
 Shudder and whisper: "Wait till dawn." 
 
 Two spirits stand beside her bed 
 
 Softly stroking her curly head. 
 
 Death whispers, "Come" — Life whispers, "Stay." 
 
 Child, little child, go not away. 
 
 Life pleads, "Remember" — and Death, "Forget." 
 
 Little child, little child, go not yet. 
 
 By all your mother's love and pain, 
 
 Child of our heart, child of our brain. 
 
 Stay with us; go not till you see 
 
 The Fairyland that life can be. 
 
 The poplars, edging the frozen lawn. 
 
 Are dancing and singing. "Thank God — the Dawn!" 
 
 Professor Frederick E. Pierce, B.A. 1904, has 
 produced three volumes of poems, of which The 
 
A GEOUP OF YALE POETS 319 
 
 World that God Destroyed exhibits an epic sweep 
 of the imagination. He imagines a world far off 
 in space, where every form of life has perished 
 save rank vegetation. One day in their wander- 
 ings over the universe, Lucifer and Michael meet 
 on this dead ball. A truce is declared and each 
 expresses some of the wisdom bought by experi- 
 ence. 
 
 The upas dripped its poison on the ground 
 Harmless; the silvery veil of fog went up 
 From mouldering fen and cold, malarial pool, 
 But brought no taint and threatened iU to none. 
 Far off adowti the mountain's craggy side 
 From time to time the avalanche thundered, sounding 
 Like sport of giant children, and the rocks 
 Whereon it smote re-echoed innocently. 
 Then in a pause of silence Lucifer 
 Struck music from the harp again and sang. 
 
 "I am the shadow that the sunbeams bring, 
 I am the thorn from which the roses spring; 
 Without the thorn would be no blossoming, 
 
 Nor were there shadow if there were no gleam. 
 I am a leaf before a wind that blows, 
 I am the foam that down the current goes; 
 I work a work on earth that no man knows. 
 
 And God Works too, — I am not what I seem. 
 
 "There comes a purer mom whose stainless glow 
 Shall cast no shadow on the ground below. 
 And fairer flowers without the thorn shall blow, 
 
 And earth at last fulfil her parent's dream. 
 Oh race of men who sin and know not why, 
 I am as you and you are even as I; 
 We all shall die at length and gladly die; 
 
 Yet even our deaths shall be not what they seem." 
 
320 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 Then Michael raised the golden lyre, and struck 
 A note more solemn soft, and made reply. 
 
 "There dwelt a doubt within my mind of yore; 
 I sought to end that doubt and laboured sore; 
 But now I search its mystery no more, 
 
 But leave it safe within the Eternal's hand. 
 The tiger hunts the lamb and yearns to kill. 
 Himself by famine hunted, fiercer still; 
 And much there is that seems unmingled ill; 
 But God is wise, and God can understand. 
 
 "All things on earth in endless balance sway; 
 Day follows night and night succeeds the day; 
 And so the powers of good and evil may 
 
 Work out the purpose that his wisdom planned. 
 Eternal day would parch the dewy mould. 
 Eternal night would freeze the lands with cold; 
 But wise was God who planned the world of old; 
 I rest in Him for He can understand. 
 
 "Yet good and evil still their wills oppose; 
 And serving both, we still must serve as foes 
 On yon far globe that teems with human woes; 
 
 And sin thou art, though God work through thy hand. 
 But here the race of man is now no more; 
 The task is done, the long day's work is o'er; 
 One hour I'll dream thee what thou wert of yore. 
 
 Though changed thou art, too changed to understand." 
 
 All day sat Michael there with Lucifer 
 Talking of things unknown to men, old tales 
 And memories dating back beyond all time. 
 And all night long beneath the lonely stars. 
 That watched no more the sins of man, they lay. 
 The angel's lofty face at rest against 
 The dark cheek scarred with thunder. 
 
 Morning came, 
 And each departed on his separate way; 
 But each looked back and lingered as he passed. 
 
A GROUP OF YALE POETS 321 
 
 ■Some of his best work, however, appears in 
 short pieces that might best be described as 
 lyrics of the farm, or, to use a title discarded by 
 Tennyson, Idylls of the Hearth. Mr. Pierce 
 knows the lonely farm-houses of New England, 
 both by inheritance and habitation, and is a true 
 interpreter of the spirit of rural life. 
 
 One of the best-known of the group of Yale 
 poets is Brian Hooker, who was graduated from 
 Yale in 1902, and for some years was a member 
 of the Faculty. His Poems (1915) are an im- 
 portant addition to contemporary literature. He 
 is a master of the sonnet-form, as any one may 
 see for himself in reading 
 
 GHOSTS 
 
 The dead return to us continually; 
 Not at the void of night, as fables feign, 
 In some lone spot where murdered bones have lain 
 
 Wailing for vengeance to the passer-by; 
 
 But in the merry clamour and full cry 
 
 Of the brave noon, our dead whom we have slain 
 And in forgotten graves hidden in vain, 
 
 Eise up and stand beside us terribly. 
 
 Sick with the beauty of their dear decay 
 We conjure them with laughters onerous 
 And drunkenness of labour; yet not thus 
 May we absolve ourselves of yesterday — 
 We cannot put those clinging arms away, 
 Nor those glad faces yearning over us. 
 
 Mr. Hooker also includes in this volume a num- 
 ber of Turns, which he describes as "a new fixed 
 form : Seven lines, in any rhythm, isometric and 
 
322 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 of not more than four feet; Rhyming AbacbcA, 
 the first line and the last a Refrain; the Idea (as 
 the name suggests) to Turn upon the recurrence 
 of the Refrain at the end with a different sense 
 from that which it bears at the beginning. ' ' For 
 example : 
 
 MISEREEE 
 
 Ah, God, my strength again! — 
 
 Not power, nor joy, but these: 
 The waking without pain, 
 
 The ardour for the task, 
 And in the evening, peace. 
 
 Is it so much to ask? 
 Ah, God, my strength again ! 
 
 American literature suffered a loss in the death 
 of Robert Cameron Rogers, of the class of 1883. 
 His book of poems, called The Rosary, appeared in 
 1906, containing the song by which naturally 
 he is best known. Set to music by the late Ethel- 
 bert Nevin, it had a prodigious vogue, and in- 
 spired a sentimental British novel, whose sales ran 
 over a million copies. The success of this ditty 
 ought not to prejudice readers against the author 
 of it; for he was more than a sentimentalist, as 
 his other pieces prove. 
 
 Rupert Hughes is an all around literary athlete. 
 He was born in Missouri, on the thirty-first of 
 January, 1872, studied at Western Reserve and 
 later at Yale, where he took the degree of M.A. in 
 1899. He is of course best known as a novelist 
 and playwright; his novel The Thirteenth Com- 
 
A GROUP OF YALE POETS 323 
 
 mandment (1916) and Ms play Excuse Me (1911) 
 are among his most successful productions. His 
 works in prose fiction are conscientiously realistic 
 and the finest of them are accurate chronicles of 
 metropolitan life; while his short stories, In a 
 Little Town (1917) are, like those of William 
 Allen White, truthful both in their representation 
 of village manners in the West, and in their recog- 
 nition of spiritual values. In view of the "up- 
 to-dateness" of Mr. Hughes's novels, it is rather 
 curious that his one long poem Gyges' Ring 
 (1901), which was written during his student days 
 at Yale, should be founded on Greek legend. Yet 
 Mr. Hughes has been a student of Greek all his 
 life, and has made many translations from the 
 original. I do not care much for Gyges' Ring; it 
 is hammered out rather than created. But some 
 of the author's short poems, to which he has often 
 composed his own musical accompaniment, I find 
 full of charm. Best of all, I think, is the imagi- 
 native and delightful 
 
 WITH A FIRST READER 
 
 Dear little child, this little book 
 
 Is less a primer than a key 
 To sunder gates where wonder waits 
 
 Your "Open Sesame!" 
 
 These tiny syllables look large; 
 
 They'll fret your wide, bewildered eyes; 
 But "Is the cat upon the mat?" 
 
 Is passport to the skies. 
 
324 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 For, yet awhile, and you shall turn 
 rrom Mother Goose to Avon's swan; 
 
 From Mary's lamb to grim Kha5?yam, 
 And Mancha's mad-wise Don. 
 
 You'll writhe at Jean Valjean's disgrace; 
 
 And D'Artagnan and Ivanhoe 
 Shall steal your sleep ; and you shall weep 
 
 At Sidney Carton's woe. 
 
 You'll find old Chaucer young once more, 
 Beaumont and Fletcher fierce with fire; 
 
 At your demand, John Milton's hand 
 Shall wake his ivory lyre. 
 
 And learning other tongues, you'll learn 
 All times are one; all men, one race; 
 
 Hear Homer speak, as Greek to Greek; 
 See Dante, face to face. 
 
 Arma virumque shall resound; 
 
 And Horace wreathe his rhymes afresh; 
 You'll rediscover Laura's lover; 
 
 Meet Gretchen in the flesh. 
 
 Oh, could I find for the first time 
 
 The Churchyard Elegy again ! 
 Retaste the sweets of new-found Keats; 
 
 Read Byron now as then! 
 
 Make haste to wander these old roads, 
 
 envied little parvenue; 
 For all things trite shall leap alight 
 
 And bloom again for you ! 
 
 Robert Hunger, B.A., 1897, published in 1912 a 
 volume called The Land of Lost Music. He is a 
 lyric poet. Melody seems as natural to him as 
 speech. 
 
A GROUP OF YALE POETS 325 
 
 There is a land uncharted of meadows and shimmering moun- 
 tains, 
 
 Stiller than moonlight silence brooding and wan, 
 
 The land of long-wandering music and dead unmelodious 
 fountains 
 
 Of singing that rose in the dreams of them that are gone. 
 
 That rose in the dreams of the dead and that rise in the dreams 
 
 of the living. 
 Fleeting, bodiless songs that passed in the night. 
 Winging away on the moment of wonder their cadence was 
 
 giving 
 Into the deeps of the valleys of stifled delight. 
 
 Richard Butler Glaenzer, B.A. 1898, whose 
 verses have frequently been seen in various pe- 
 riodicals, collected them in Beggar and King, 
 1917. His poems cover a wide range of thought 
 and feeling, but I like him best when he is most 
 whimsical, as in 
 
 COMPARISONS 
 
 Jupiter, lost to Vega's realm, 
 Lights his lamp from the sun-ship's helm : 
 Big as a thousand earths, and yet 
 Dimmed by the glow of a cigarette! 
 
 Mr. Glaenzer has published a number of verse 
 criticisms of contemporary writers, which he calls 
 Snapshots. These display considerable penetra- 
 tion; perhaps the following is fairly illustrative. 
 
 CABLE 
 
 To read your tales 
 
 Is like opening a cedar-bos 
 
 Of ante-bellum days, 
 
 A box holding the crinoline and fan 
 
326 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 And the tortoise-shell diary 
 With flowers pressed between the leaves 
 Belonging to some languid grande dame 
 Of Creole New Orleans. 
 
 Benjamin B,. C. Low, B.A. 1902, a practising 
 lawyer, has published four or five volumes of 
 poems, including The Sailor who has Sailed 
 (1911), A Wand and Strings (1913) and The 
 House that Was (1915). He is seen at his best in 
 These United States, dedicated to Alan Seeger, 
 which appeared in the Boston Transcript, 7 Feb- 
 ruary, 1917. This is an original, vigorous work, 
 full of the unexpected, and yet seen to be true as 
 soon as expressed. His verses show a constantly 
 increasing grasp of material, and I look for finer 
 things from his pen. 
 
 Although Mr. Low seems to be instinctively a 
 romantic poet, he is fond of letting his imaginative 
 sympathy play on common scenes in city streets ; 
 as in The Sandwich Man. 
 
 The lights of town are pallid yet 
 
 With winter afternoon; 
 The sullied streets are dank and wet, 
 The halted motors fume and fret, 
 The world turns homeward soon. 
 
 There is no kindle in the sky, 
 
 No cheering sunset flame; 
 I have no help from passers-by, — 
 They part, and give good-night; but I . . . 
 
 Walk with another's name. 
 
 I have no kith, nor kin, nor home 
 Wherein to turn to sleep; 
 
A GROUP OF TALE POETS 327 
 
 No star-lamp sifts me through the gloam, 
 I am the driven, wastrel foam 
 On a subsiding deep. 
 
 I do not toil for love, or fame, 
 
 Or hope of high reward ; 
 My path too low for praise or blame, 
 I struggle on, each day the same. 
 
 My panoply — a board. 
 
 Who gave me life I do not know, 
 
 Nor what that life should be. 
 Or why I live at all; I go, 
 A dead leaf shivering with snow. 
 
 Under a worn-out tree. 
 
 The lights of town are blurred with mist. 
 
 And pale with afternoon, — 
 Of gold they are, and amethyst : 
 Dull pain is creeping at my wrist. . . . 
 
 The World turns homeward soon. 
 
 A poet of national reputation is William Rose 
 Benet, who was graduated in 1907. Mr. Benet 
 came to Yale from Augusta, Georgia, and since 
 his graduation has been connected with the edi- 
 torial staff of the Century Magazine. At present 
 he is away in service in Prance, where his adven- 
 turous spirit is at home. He may have taken 
 some of his reputation with him, for he is sure to 
 be a favourite over there; but the fame he left 
 behind him is steadily growing. The very splen- 
 dour of romance glows in his spacious poetry ; he 
 loves to let his imagination run riot, as might be 
 guessed merely by reading the names on his 
 books. To every one who has ever been touched 
 
328 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 by the love of a quest, his title-pages will ap- 
 peal: The Great White Wall, a tale of "magic 
 adventure, of war and death"; Merchants from 
 Cathay (1913), The Falconer of God (1914), The 
 Burtjlar of the Zodiac (1917). His verses surge 
 with vitality, as in The Boast of the Tides. He is 
 at his best in long, swinging, passionate rhythms. 
 Unfortunately in the same measures he is also at 
 his worst. His most potent temptation is the love 
 of noise, which makes some of his less artistic 
 verse sound like organized cheering. 
 
 But when he gets the right tune for the right 
 words, he is irresistible. There is no space here 
 to quote such a rattling ballad — like a frenzy of 
 snare-drums— as Merchants from Cathay, but it 
 is not mere sound and fury, it is not swollen 
 rhetoric, it is an inspired poem. No one can 
 read or hear it without being violently aroused. 
 Mr. Benet is a happy-hearted poet, singing with 
 gusto of the joy of life. 
 
 ON EDWARD WEBBE, ENGLISH GUNNER 
 
 He met the Danske pirates off Tuttee ; 
 
 Saw the Chrim bum "Musko"; speaks with bated breath 
 
 Of his sale to the great Turk, when peril of death 
 
 Chained him to oar their galleys on the sea 
 
 Until, as gunner, in Persia they set him free 
 
 To fight their foes. Of Prester John he saith 
 
 Astounding things. But Queen Elizabeth 
 
 He worships, and his dear Lord on Calvary. 
 
 Quaint is the phrase, ingenuous the wit 
 
 Of this great childish seaman in Palestine, 
 
 Mocked home through Italy after his release 
 
 With threats of the Armada ; and all of it 
 
A GROUP OF YALE POETS 329 
 
 Warms me like flrelight jewelling old wine 
 In some ghost inn hung with the golden fleece ! 
 
 Arthur Colton, B.A. 1890, is as quiet and reflec- 
 tive as Mr. Benet is strenuous. Has any one ever 
 better expressed the heart of Chaucer's Troilus 
 and Criseyde than in these few words ? 
 
 A smile, of flowers, and fresh May, across 
 The dreamy, drifting face of old Romance; 
 The same reiterate tale of love and loss 
 And joy that trembles in the hands of chance; 
 , And midst his rippling lines old Geoffrey stands, 
 
 Saying, "Pray for me when the tale is done. 
 Who see no more the flowers, nor the sun." 
 
 Mr. Colton collected many of his poems in 1907, 
 under the title Harps Rung Up in Babylon. He 
 had moved from New Haven to New York. 
 
 Allan Updegraff, who left college before taking 
 his degree, a member of the class of 1907, recently 
 turned from verse to prose, and wrote an admir- 
 able novel, Second Youth. He is, however, a true 
 poet, and any one might be proud to be the au- 
 thor of 
 
 THE TIME AND THE PLACE 
 
 Will you not come ? The pines are gold with evening 
 And breathe their old-time fragrance by the sea; 
 You loved so well their spicy exhalation, — 
 
 So smiled to smell it and old ocean's piquancy; 
 And those weird tales of winds and waves' relation — 
 Could you forget? Will you not come to me? 
 
 See, 'tis the time: the last long gleams are going. 
 The pine-spires darken, mists rise waveringly; 
 The gloaming brings the old familiar longing 
 
330 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETEY 
 
 To be re-crooned by twilight voices of the sea. 
 
 And just such tinted wavelets shoreward thronging — 
 Could you forget things once so dear — and me? 
 
 Whatever of the waves is ceaseless longing, 
 And of the twilight immortality : 
 The urge of some wild, inchoate aspiration 
 
 Akin to afterglow and stars and winds and sea : 
 This hour makes full and pours out in libation, — 
 Could you forget? Will you not come to me? 
 
 What golden galleons sailed into the sunset 
 
 Not to come home unto eternity: 
 
 What souls went outward hopeful of returning, 
 This time and tide might well call back across the sea. 
 
 Did we not dream so while old Wests were burning? 
 
 Could you forget such once-dear things — and me? 
 
 From the dimmed sky and long grey waste of waters, 
 
 Lo, one lone sail on all the lonely sea 
 
 A moment blooms to whiteness like a lily, 
 As sudden fades, is gone, yet half-seems still to be; 
 
 And you, — though that last time so strange and stilly, — 
 
 Though you are dead, will you not come to me ? 
 
 Lee Wilson Dodd, at present in service in 
 France, was graduated in 1899, and for some years 
 was engaged in the practice of the law. This oc- 
 cupation he abandoned for literature in 1907. He 
 is the author of several successful plays, and has 
 published two volumes of verse, The Modern Al- 
 chemist (1906) and The Middle Miles (1915). 
 His growth in the intervening years will be appar- 
 ent to any one who compares the two books ; there 
 is in his best work a combination of fancy and 
 humour. He loves to write about New England 
 gardens and discovers beauty by the very simple 
 
A GROUP OF YALE POETS 331 
 
 process of opening Ms eyes at home. The follow- 
 ing poem is characteristically sincere : 
 
 TO A NEO-PAGAN 
 
 Your praise of Nero leaves me cold: 
 Poems of porphyry and of gold, 
 Palatial poems, chill my heart. 
 I gaze — I wonder — I depart. 
 Not to Byzantium would I roam 
 In quest of beauty, nor Babylon ; 
 Nor do I seek Sahara's sun 
 To blind me to the hills of home. 
 Here am I native; here the skies 
 Bum not, the sea I know is grey; 
 Wanly the winter sunset dies. 
 Wanly comes day. 
 Yet on these hills and near this sea 
 Beauty has lifted eyes to me, 
 Unlustful eyes, clear eyes and kind; 
 While a clear voice chanted^ — 
 
 "They who find 
 "Me not beside their doorsteps, know 
 "Me never, know me never, though 
 "Seeking, seeking me, high and low, 
 "Forth on the far four winds they go 1" 
 
 Therefore your basalt, jade, and gems. 
 
 Your Saracenic silver, your 
 
 Nilotic gods, your diadems 
 
 To bind the brows of Queens, impure, 
 
 Perfidious, passionate, perfumed — these 
 
 Your petted, pagan stage-properties, 
 
 Seem but as toys of trifling worth. 
 
 For I have marked the naked earth 
 
 Beside my doorstep yield to the print 
 
 Of a long light foot, and flash with the glint 
 
 Of crocus-gold — 
 
 Crocus-gold ! 
 
 Crocus-gold no mill may mint 
 
332 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 Save the Mill of God — 
 
 The Mill of Godl 
 
 The Mill of God with His angels in't! 
 
 Other Yale poets are W. B. Arvine, 1903, whose 
 book Hang Up Philosophy (1911), particularly ex- 
 cels in the interpretation of natural scenery; 
 Frederick M. Clapp, 1901, whose volume On the 
 Overland (since republished in America) was in 
 process of printing in Bruges in 1914, when the 
 Germans entered the old town, and smashed 
 among other things, the St. Catherine Press. 
 Just fifteen copies of Mr. Clapp 's book had been 
 struck off, of which I own one; Donald Jacobus, 
 1908, whose. Poems (1914) are richly meditative; 
 James H. "Wallis, 1906, who has joined the ranks 
 of poets with The Testament of William Windune 
 and Other Poems (1917) ; Leonard Bacon, 1909, 
 who modestly called his book, published in the 
 year of his graduation. The Scrannel Pipe; Ken- 
 neth Rand, 1914, who produced two volumes of 
 original verse while an undergraduate ; Archibald 
 Mac Leish, 1915, whose Tower of Ivory, a collec- 
 tion of lyrics, appeared in 1917; Elliot Griffis, a 
 student in the School of Music, who published in 
 1918 under an assumed name a volume called Rain 
 in May; and I may close this roll-call by remark- 
 ing that those who have seen his work have a 
 staunch faith in the future of Stephen Vincent 
 Benet. He is a younger brother of William, and 
 is at present a Yale undergraduate. Mr. Benet 
 was born at Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, on the 
 
A GROUP OF YALE POETS 333 
 
 twenty-second of July, 1898. His liome is at Au- 
 gusta, Georgia. Before entering college, and 
 wlien lie was seventeen, he published his first vol- 
 ume of poems, Five Men and Pompey (1915). 
 This was followed in 1917 by another book. The 
 Drug Shop. His best single production is the 
 Cook prize poem, The Hemp. 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 I Have a Bendezvoits with Death 
 
 The remarkably impressive and beautiful poem 
 by Alan Seeger which bears the above title natur- 
 ally attracted universal attention. I had sup- 
 posed the idea originated with Stephen Crane, 
 who, in his novel The Red Badge of Courage, 
 Chapter IX, has the following paragraph : 
 
 At last they saw him stop and stand motionless. Hasten- 
 ing up, they perceived that his face wore an expression telHng 
 that he had at last found the place for which he had struggled. 
 His spare figure was erect; his bloody hands were quietly at 
 his side. He was waiting with patience for something that he 
 had come to meet. He was at the rendezvous. They paused 
 and stood, expectant. 
 
 But I am informed both by Professor F. N. Eob- 
 inson of Harvard and by Mr. Norreys Jephson 
 'Conor that the probable source of the title of 
 the poem is Irish. Professor Robinson writes me, 
 "The Irish poem that probably suggested to 
 Seeger the title of his Rendezvous is the Reicne 
 Fothaid Canainne (Song of Fothad Canainne), 
 published by Kuno Meyer in his Fianaigecht 
 (Dublin, 1910), pp. 1-21. Seeger read the piece 
 at one of my Celtic Conferences, and was much 
 impressed by it. He got from it only his title and 
 the fundamental figure of a rendezvous with 
 Death, the Irish poem being wholly different from 
 
 335 
 
336 ADVANCE OF ENGLISH POETRY 
 
 Ms in general purport. Fothad Canainne makes 
 a tryst with the wife of Ailill Flann, but is slain 
 in battle by Ailill on the day before the night set 
 for the meeting. Then the spirit of Fothad (or, 
 according to one version, his severed head) sings 
 the reicne to the woman and declares (st. 3) : 
 'It is blindness for one who makes a tryst to set 
 aside the tryst with death.' " 
 
 Miss Amy Lowell, however, believes that Seeger 
 got the idea from a French poet. Wherever he 
 got it, I believe that he made it his own, for he used 
 it supremely well, and it will always be associated 
 with him. 
 
 At Harvard, Alan Seeger took the, small and 
 special course in Irish, and showed enthusiasm for 
 this branch of study. Wishing to find out some- 
 thing about his undergraduate career, I wrote to 
 a member of the Faculty, and received the follow- 
 ing reply: "Many persons found him almost 
 morbidly indifferent and unresponsive, and he sel- 
 dom showed the full measure of his powers. . . . 
 I grew to have a strong liking for him personally 
 as well as a respect for his intellectual power. 
 But I should never have expected him to show the 
 robustness of either mind or body which we now 
 know him to have possessed. He was frail and 
 sickly in appearance, and seemed to have a tem- 
 perament in keeping with his physique. It took 
 a strong impulse to bring him out and disclose his 
 real capacity." 
 
 There is no doubt that the war gave him this 
 
APPENDIX 337 
 
 impulse, and that the poem I Have a Rendezvous 
 with Death must h& classed among the literature 
 directly produced by the great struggle. After 
 four years, I should put at the head of all the im- 
 mense number of verses inspired by the war John 
 Masefield's August 1914, Alan Seeger's I Have a' 
 Rendezvous with Death, and Rupert Brooke's The 
 Soldier; and of all the poems written by men actu- 
 ally fighting, I should put Alan Seeger's first. 
 
 While reading these proofs, the news comes of 
 the death of a promising young American poet, 
 Joyce Kilmer, a sergeant in our army, who fell 
 in France^ August, 1918. He was born 6 Decem- 
 ber, 1866, was a graduate of Rutgers and Colum- 
 bia, and had published a number of poems. His 
 supreme sacrifice nobly closed a life filled with 
 beauty in word and deed. 
 
INDEX 
 
 [Only important references are given ; the mere mention of names 
 is' omitted.] 
 
 Abercrombie, L., 123. ' 
 
 Adams, F. P., 276. 
 
 "A. E." (G. W. Russell), 177- 
 182; personality, 178; a sin- 
 cere mystic, 179; assurance, 
 180; discovery of Stephens, 
 178; influence on Susan 
 Mitchell, 187. 
 
 Aiken, C, 308. 
 
 AndreVrs, C. E., From the 
 Front, 110. 
 
 Arnold, M., poem on Words- 
 worth compared to Watson's, 
 48. 
 
 Arvine, W. B., 332. 
 
 Aumonier, S., quotation from, 
 213. 
 
 Austin, A., 28. 
 
 Bacon, L., 332. 
 
 Barker, G., production of 
 Dynasts, 18; remark on 
 Shaw, 220. 
 
 Beers, H. A., 312-316. 
 
 Bena, S. v., 332, 333. 
 
 BenSt, W. R., 327-329. 
 
 Bishop, J. P., 296, 297. 
 
 Blackwell, B. H., a, publisher, 
 156. 
 
 Bradley, W. A., 297, 298. 
 
 Braithwaite, W. S., his anthol- 
 ogy, 270, 296. 
 
 Branch, A. H., a leader, 245; 
 poems, 256-261 ; education, 
 
 339 
 
 257; passion, 257-259; con- 
 trasted with Masters, 261. 
 
 Bridges, R., poet-laureate, 28; 
 his verse, 29, 30. 
 
 Brooke, R., canonized, 46; Gib- 
 son on, 110; poems, 124-130; 
 letters, 127; Howland prize, 
 140; compared to De La 
 Mare, 144; The Soldier, 337. 
 
 Browne, T., compared to Yeats, 
 169. 
 
 Browning, R., concentration, 
 23; Pauline, 43; on spiritual 
 blessings, 47; lack of experi- 
 ence, 72 ; self -consciousness, 
 75; Christmas Eve, 81; nat- 
 ural poetry, 96 ; metre of One 
 Word More, 107; The Glove, 
 122; Ognibeu's remark, 125 j 
 compared to Brooke, 128; 
 temperament, 161; contrasted 
 with Yeats, 168; Masters 
 compared to, 265; Confes- 
 sions, 314. 
 
 Burns, R., influence on democ- 
 racy, 50. 
 
 Burton, R., 200. 
 
 Byuner, W., 303-305. 
 
 Byron, Lord, sales of his poems, 
 45; wit compared to Wat- 
 son's, 54; common sense, 159. 
 
 Galderon, G., remark on Che- 
 khov, 241. 
 Campbell, J., 189, 190. 
 
340 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Carlin, P., 192. 
 
 Carlyle, T., remark on Crom- 
 well, 234. 
 
 Chaucer, G., eflfect on Masefield, 
 72, 82. 
 
 Chekhov, A., centrifugal force, 
 241. 
 
 Clapp, F. M., 332. 
 
 Cleghorn, S. N., 284-286. 
 
 Coleridge, S. T., remark on po- 
 etry, 249. 
 
 Colton, A., 329. 
 
 Colum, P., 185, 186. 
 
 Conrad, J., compared to Scott, 
 1. 
 
 Cooke, E. v., 201. 
 
 Corbin, A., 283, 284. 
 
 Crane, S., Red Badge of Cour- 
 age, 109, 335. 
 
 Craahaw, R., his editor, 131. 
 
 Davidson, J., test of poetry, 37. 
 
 Davies, M. C, 282. 
 
 Davies, W. H., 150, 151. 
 
 Davis, F. S., 280, 281. 
 
 De La Mare, W., homage to, 46 ; 
 poems, 139-145; compared to 
 Hawthorne, 140; retirement, 
 140-143; Listeners, 141, 142; 
 Shakespeare portraits, 142; 
 Old Susan, 143; Peacock Pie, 
 144.- 
 
 Dodd, L. W., 330-332. 
 
 Donne, J., reputation, 56; stim- 
 ulant, 253. 
 
 Drake, F., German statue to, 
 61 ; poem by Noyes, 61. 
 
 Drinkwater, J., 148-150. 
 
 Egan, M. F., 191, 192. 
 
 Eliot, T. S., 293. 
 
 Emerson, R. W., prophecy on 
 
 poetry, 142. 
 Erskine, J., 300. 
 
 Flecker, J. E., 130-139; post- 
 humous editor of, 130; trans- 
 lations, 134; aims, 135; Oak 
 and Olive, 137; religion, 137; 
 Jerusalem, 138. 
 
 Fletcher, J. G., 306, 307. 
 
 Foulke, W. D., 204, 205. 
 
 Frost, R., dedication by Thomas, 
 152; poems, 235-237; theo- 
 ries, 237; outdoor poet, 238; 
 realism, 240; tragedy, 241- 
 243 ; pleasure of recognition, 
 243, 244. 
 
 Garrison, T., 281, 282. 
 
 Gibson, W. W., homage to, 46; 
 poems, 98-114; Stonefolds, 
 99-101; Daily Bread, 101- 
 104; Fires, 104-106; Thor- 
 oughfares, 106; war poems, 
 107-111; Livelihood, 111; 
 latest work, 112-114; his 
 contribution, 114. 
 
 Gladstone, W. E., eulogy by 
 Phillips, 41. 
 
 Glaenzer, R. B., 325, 326. 
 
 Goethe, J. W., Flecker's trans- 
 lation of, 134; poise, 159. 
 
 Grainger, P., great artist, 34; 
 audacities, 227. 
 
 Graves, R., 155. 
 
 Gray, T., on laureateship, 28; 
 compared to Hodgson, 115; 
 compared to Masters, 268. 
 
 Griffis, E., 332. 
 
 Griffiths, W., 298-300. 
 
 Hagedorn, H., 305. 
 
 Hardy, T., 14-28 ; a forerunner, 
 15; Dynasts, 16; idea of 
 God, 19-22; pessimism, 22 
 thought and music, 23, 24 
 Moments of Vision, 24-28 
 Housman's likeness to, 66. 
 
INDEX 
 
 341 
 
 Hawthorne, N., compared to De 
 La Mare, 140. 
 
 Henley, W. E., 5-9; compared 
 to Thompson, 5; paganism, 
 6; lyrical power, 7. 
 
 Hodgson, E., 114-123; a re- 
 cluse, 115; love of animals, 
 116, 119-122; humour, 118; 
 compared to Alice Corbin, 
 284. 
 
 Hooker, B., 321, 322. 
 
 Housman, A. E., 65-70; mod- 
 ernity, 65; scholarship, 65; 
 likeness to Hardy, 66; pa- 
 ganism and pessimism, 66; 
 lyrical power, 69. 
 
 Hughes, E,., 322-324. 
 
 Hyde, D., influence, 172. 
 
 Ibsen, H., student of the Bible, 
 261. 
 
 Jacobus, D., 332. 
 
 James, H., tribute to Brooke, 
 
 126. 
 Johnson, R. U., 198-200. 
 
 Keats, J., Phillips compared to, 
 37; influence on Amy Low- 
 ell, 246; Endymion, 251; 
 Amy Lowell's sonnet on, 251. 
 
 Kilmer, J., 337. 
 
 Kipling, E., 28-33; imperial 
 laureate, 28; Recessional, 29; 
 popularity, 30, 31; influence 
 on soldiers, 31, 32; Watson's 
 allusion to, 45, 46; Danny 
 Deever, 227. 
 
 Landor, W. S., his violence, 160. 
 Lawrence, D. H., 145-148. 
 Ledwidge, F., 186, 187. 
 Leonard, W. E., 300. 
 Lewis, C. M., 316, 317. 
 Lindsay, N. V., 213-235; Har- 
 
 riet Monroe's magazine, 214; 
 Booth, 214, 220-222; devel- 
 opment, 216; drawings, 217; 
 "games," 217, 218; Congo, 
 219, 220, 226, 227; Niagara, 
 223; prose, 224, 225; chants, 
 226 ; geniality, 230-233 ; 
 Esther, 295. 
 
 Locke, W. J., his dreams, 60. 
 
 Low, B. R. C, 326, 327. 
 
 Lowell, A. L., love of liberty, 
 246. 
 
 Lowell, Amy, essay on Frost, 
 236; poems, 245-256; train- 
 ing, 245-247 ; free verse, 248, 
 249; imagism, 250,; Sword- 
 Blades, 252, 253; narrative 
 skill, 253, 254; polyphonic 
 prose, 255, 256; versatility, 
 256; remark on Seeger, 336. 
 
 Lowell, P., influence on Amy, 
 246. 
 
 MacDonagh, T., 188, 189. 
 
 Mackaye, P., 305, 306; stipend 
 for poets, 44; poems, 305, 
 306. 
 
 MacLeish, A., 332. 
 
 Maeterlinck, M., compared to 
 Yeats, 167 ; rhythmical prose, 
 255. 
 
 Markham, E., 201. 
 
 Marquis, D., 275. 
 
 Masefield, J., homage to, 46; 
 poems, 71-97; the modern 
 Chaucer, 72, 73, 82, 83; edu- 
 cation, 72-74; Dauher, 75, 
 76; critical power, 77; rela- 
 tion to Wordsworth, 77-79, 
 84, 85; Everlasting Mercy, 
 80 ; Widow in the Bye Street, 
 82, 83; Daffodil Fields, 84- 
 90; compared to Tennyson, 
 86-90; August, 19H, 90, 91, 
 337; lyrics, 92; sonnets, 93; 
 
342 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Rosas, 94; novels, 94; gen- 
 eral contribution, 95; Drink- 
 water's dedication, 148; Ai- 
 ken's relation to, 307. 
 
 Masters, E. L., 261-271; edu- 
 cation, 261, 262; Spoon 
 River, 262-270; irony, 266; 
 love of truth, 267; analysis, 
 268; cynicism, 269; idealism, 
 269. 
 
 Meredith, G., his poems, 16. 
 
 Middleton, S., 296. 
 
 Milton, J., his invocation, 17; 
 Piedmont sonnet, 50. 
 
 Mitchell, S., 187. 
 
 Monroe, H., her magazine, 214, 
 215, 283; her anthology, 283; 
 poems, 282-284. 
 
 Moody, W. v., 195, 196. 
 
 Morley, J., remarks on Irish- 
 men and Wordsworth, 160, 
 161. 
 
 Munger, R., 324, 325. 
 
 Neihardt, J. G., 293, 294. 
 
 Nichols, R., 154-156. 
 
 Nicholson, M., poems, 303 ; re- 
 mark on college stories, 313. 
 
 Noyes, A., homage to, 46; 
 poems, 56-65; education, 57; 
 singing power, 58 ; Tramp 
 Transfigured, 59, 63 ; his mas- 
 terpiece, 59; child imagina- 
 tion, 60; sea poetry, 61; 
 Drake, 61; May-Tree, 62; 
 new effects, 63; war poems, 
 64; optimism, 64. 
 
 O'Conor, N. J., poems, 192; re- 
 mark on Seeger, 335. 
 O'Sullivan, S., 190, 191. 
 
 Peabody, J. P., 206-209. 
 Percy, W. A., 308-310. 
 Phillips, S., 35^1; sudden 
 
 fame, 35; education, 36; 
 Marpessa, 38; realism, 40; 
 Gladstone, 40, 41; protest 
 against Masefield, 79. 
 Pierce, F. E., 318-321. 
 
 Quarlea, F., quoted, 252. 
 Quiller-Couch, A., remark on 
 the Daffodil Fields, 87. 
 
 Rand, K., 332. 
 
 Reedy, W. M., relation to Mas- 
 ters, 263. 
 
 Rice, C. Y., 205, 206. 
 
 Riley, J. W., remark on Hen- 
 ley, 7; "Riley Day," 46; re- 
 mark on Anna Branch, 256; 
 a conservative, 257. 
 
 Rittenhouse, J. B., 286, 287. 
 
 Robinson, C. R., 301, 302. 
 
 Robinson, E. A., 209-212. 
 
 Robinson, F. N., remark on 
 Seeger, 335. 
 
 Rogers, R. C, 322. 
 
 Sandburg, C, 289-291. 
 
 Santayana, G., 196-198. 
 
 Sassoon, S., 155. 
 
 Scott, W., compared to Conrad, 
 1; sales of his poems, 45. 
 
 Seeger, A., 310, 311; Low's 
 dedication, 326; source of his 
 poem, 335-337. 
 
 Service, R. W., likeness to Kip- 
 ling, 33. 
 
 Shakespeare, W., compared to 
 Wordsworth, 2; compared to 
 Masefield, 93; portraits by 
 De La Mare, 142; poem on 
 by Masters, 270. 
 
 Shaw, G. B., Major Barbara, 
 220. 
 
 Spingarn, J., creative criticism, 
 49. 
 
INDEX 
 
 343 
 
 Squire, J. C, introduction to 
 Flecker, 131. 
 
 Stephens, J., 182-185; novels, 
 182; discovered by A. E., 
 178, 182; realism, 183; child- 
 poetry, 183, 184; power of 
 cursing, 184. 
 
 Stevenson, R. L., remark on 
 Whitman, 146. 
 
 Stork, C. W., 294, 295. 
 
 Swinburne, A. C, critical vio- 
 lence, 77; Lindsay's likeness 
 to, 217; Lindsay's use of, 232. 
 
 Synge, J. M., advice from 
 Yeats, 164; works, 171-177; 
 versatility, 172; bitterness, 
 173; theory of poetry, 175, 
 176; autobiographical poems, 
 176; thoughts on death, 177; 
 influence on Stephens, 183. 
 
 Teasdale, S., 277-280. 
 
 Tennyson, A., continued popu- 
 larity of, 10; his invocation, 
 17; compared to Hardy, 24; 
 early poems on death, 67; 
 compared to Masefield, 86- 
 88; his memoirs, 130; his re- 
 serve, 160; quality of his po- 
 etry, 253. 
 
 Thomas, E., 152-154. 
 
 Thomas, E. M., 202. 
 
 Thompson, F., 9-14; compared 
 to Henley, 9; religious pas- 
 sion, 9, 10; In No Strange 
 Land, 12; Lilium Regis, 13; 
 Noyes's ode to, 58; Flecker's 
 poem on, 133. 
 
 Trench, H., 191. 
 
 Underwood, J. C, 291-293. 
 Untermeyer, L., 271-275. 
 Updegraflf, A., 329-330. 
 
 VanDyke, H., 202, 203. 
 
 Vaughan, H., quoted, 308. 
 Viel6, H. K., 205. 
 
 Wallis, J. H., 332. 
 
 Watson, W., 41-56; poor start, 
 41 ; address in America, 43 ; 
 King Alfred, 44; Words- 
 worth's Orave, 44, 48; epi- 
 grams, 47, 48 ; Bow Weary is 
 Our Heart, 50 ; hymn of hate, 
 51 ; war poems, 52 ; Yellow 
 Pansy, 53; Byronic wit, 54; 
 Moping Angels, 54 ; dislike of 
 new poetry, 55. 
 
 Weaving, W., 155, 156. 
 
 Wells, H. (x; religious position, 
 48. 
 
 Whitman, W., natural style, 
 56; Man of War Bird, 73 
 <irly conventionality, 98 
 Stevenson's remark on, 146 
 growth of reputation, 249 
 Sandburg's relation, 290. 
 
 Whitney, H. H., 301. 
 
 Whitsett, W. T., 300', 301. 
 
 Widdemer, M., 287-289. 
 
 Wilcox; E. W., 201. 
 
 Willcocks, M.- P., remark on 
 will, 8. 
 
 Woodberry, G. E., 2u8, 204. 
 
 Wordsworth, W., compared to 
 Shakespeare, 3 ; Watson's 
 poem on, 48, 49; MasefiUd's 
 relations to, 77-79, 84, 85. 
 
 Yeats, W. B., 162-171; educa- 
 tion, 162; devotion to art, 
 164, 165, 170, 191; his names, 
 165; love poetry, 166, 167; 
 dramas, 168; prose, 168-171; 
 mysticism, 179; relation to 
 Lindsay, 226. 
 
 Younghusband, G., remark on 
 Kipling, 31. 
 
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