Studies of Contemporary Poets Part 15

To what G.o.d Shall we chant Our songs of Battle?

Hefty barbarians, Roaring for war, Are breaking upon us; Clouds of their cavalry, Waves of their infantry, Mountains of guns.

Winged they are coming, Plated and mailed, Snorting their jargon.

Oh to whom shall a song of battle be chanted?

Not to our lord of the hosts on his ancient throne, Drowsing the ages out in Heaven alone.

The celestial choirs are mute, the angels have fled: Word is gone forth abroad that our lord is dead.

To what G.o.d Shall we chant Our songs of Battle?

I do not wish, to stress unduly the spiritual element in this work, but it compels attention for two reasons. It is a dominant impulse, supplying themes which occur early and late and often; and the manner of its expression reveals a link with the past generation which is a.n.a.logous to the technical connexion that we have already noted.

The signs of descent from the Victorians are naturally to be found in the early poems. There is, for example, the inevitable cla.s.sic theme treated in the (also inevitable) romantic manner, and making a charming combination, despite the grumblings of the realist and the pedant. That, however, is a very obvious and external mark of descent. A more interesting sign is in the spirit of "A Song at Dawn," a wail to the Power of Powers which the author probably wishes to forget. So I will not quote it. The point about it is the celerity with which it sends thought flying back to Matthew Arnold and "Dover Beach." Yet there is an important difference. For whilst the Victorian muses upon the decay of faith with exquisite mournfulness, the 'Georgian' takes an att.i.tude of greater detachment. Instead of grieving for a dead or dying system of theology, he seeks to question the reality which lies behind it.

In the volume of 1911, called _Before Dawn_, there are several poems which pursue the same quest. Sometimes the method is one of provocative directness, as in the dramatic piece called "G.o.d"; and at other times it is by way of symbol or suggestion, as in "Moon-worshippers" or "Two Visions." From the nature of things, however, the pieces in which the argumentative att.i.tude is taken are the less satisfying, as poetry. Thus the colloquy in "G.o.d" just fails, from the polemical theme, of being truly dramatic; while, on the other hand, its form prevents it from rising into such lovely lyrism as that of "The Last Abbot." In the former poem we are to imagine all sorts and conditions of people coming in and out of an old English tavern on market day; and all of them ready and willing to enlighten a travel-stained pilgrim there as to "Who and what is G.o.d?" One sees the allegory, of course; but, somehow, that is less convincing than the touches of satirical portraiture which we find in pa.s.sing, and which point to this poet's gift of objectivity. The judge and the priest, the soldier and sailor and farmer, the beggar, thief and merchant, are presented mainly as types: that, of course, being demanded by the allegory. And when a poet arrives to solve the problem, he also speaks 'in character'--though we recognize the voice for one more modern than his reputed age.

... G.o.d is a spirit, not a creed; He is an inner outward-moving power:

He is that one Desire, that life, that breath, That Soul which, with infinity of pain, Pa.s.ses through revelation and through death Onward and upward to itself again.

Out of the lives of heroes and their deeds, Out of the miracle of human thought, Out of the songs of singers, G.o.d proceeds; And of the soul of them his Soul is wrought.

There follows a quick clatter of disputation, broken by the entrance of the philosopher; and the pilgrim's question being put to him, he replies--

G.o.d? G.o.d! There is no G.o.d.

Thus 'the spirit that denies' abruptly shatters the poetic vision; and the artistic effect is, correspondingly, to break the music of the previous stanzas with a sudden discord. The design of the work required that the philosopher should be heard, and dramatic fitness suggested that his most effective entrance would be here, rending the fair new synthesis with denial. And the resulting dissonance is inherent in the very scheme of the poem.

That defect does not appear in "The Last Abbot," which is also engaged upon the thought of the universal soul. Here an old monk, knowing that he is drawing near the end of life, quietly talks to the brethren of his order about life and death and after-death. There is no argument, no discussion even. No other voice is raised to interrupt the meditative flow of the old man's message, which is, in fact, a recantation. And, as a consequence, the poem has a unity of serene reflectiveness, rising at times to lyrical ecstasy. He is thinking of his approaching death--

Oh, I, with light and airy change, Across the azure sky shall range, When I am dead.

I shall be one Of all the misty, fresh and healing powers.

Dew I shall be, and fragrance of the morn, And quietly shall lie dreaming all the noon, Or oft shall sparkle underneath the moon, A million times shall die and be reborn, Because the sun again and yet again Shall s.n.a.t.c.h me softly from the earth away: I shall be rain; I shall be spray; At night shall oft among the misty shades Pa.s.s dreamily across the open lea; And I shall live in the loud cascades, Pouring their waters into the sea.

... Nought can die: All belongs to the living Soul, Makes, and partakes, and is the whole, All--and therefore, I.

So much then for the poet's cosmic theory, presented more or less directly. This explicit treatment may, as we see, give individual pa.s.sages where thought and feeling are completely fused, and the idea gets itself born into a shape sufficiently concrete for the breath of poetry to live in it. But the final effect of such poems is apt to be dimmed by the shadow of controversy. A subtler method is used, however, justified in a finer type of art. In "Don Juan in h.e.l.l," for instance, there is a symbolical presentment of the theme: a conception of life which is a corollary from the poet's theory of the universe. Don Juan is here an incarnation of the vital forces of the world, of the positive value and power of life which is in eternal conflict with a religion of negation. And, a newcomer among the shades in h.e.l.l, he turns his scorn upon them for the lascivious pa.s.sion which found it necessary to invent sin.

Light, light your fires, That they may purify your own desires!

They will not injure me.

This fire of mine Was kindled from the torch that will outshine Eternity.

Proud, you disclaim That fair desire from which all came; Unworthy of your lofty human birth, Despise the earth.

O crowd funereal, Lifting your anxious brows because of sin, There is no Heaven such as you would win, Nor any other Paradise at all, Save in fulfilling some superb desire With all the spirit's fire.

The same idea is woven into "Moon-worshippers," with delicate grace. It const.i.tutes a precise charge, in the poem "To Tolstoi," that the great idealist has forsworn the 'holy way of life'; and, recurring in many forms more or less explicit, culminates in the charming allegory called "Children of Love." This is a later poem, mature in thought and masterly in form. The theme is by this time a familiar one to the poet: he has considered it deeply and often. And having gone through the crucible so many times, it is now of a fineness and plasticity to be handled with ease. It runs into the symbolism here so lightly as hardly to awaken an echo of afterthought, and shapes to an allegory much too winning to provoke controversy. The first two stanzas of the poem imagine the boy Jesus walking dreamily under the olives in the cool of the evening:

Suddenly came Running along to him naked, with curly hair, That rogue of the lovely world, That other beautiful child whom the virgin Venus bare.

The holy boy Gazed with those sad blue eyes that all men know.

Impudent Cupid stood Panting, holding an arrow and pointing his bow.

(Will you not play?

Jesus, run to him, run to him, swift for our joy.

Is he not holy, like you?

Are you afraid of his arrows, O beautiful dreaming boy?)

Marvellous dream!

Cupid has offered his arrows for Jesus to try; He has offered his bow for the game.

But Jesus went weeping away, and left him there wondering why.

That may be taken as Mr Monro's most representative poem. On our theory, therefore (of this work as a link with the older school), the piece might serve to indicate the point which contemporary poetry has reached, advancing in technique and in thought straight from the previous generation. Not that it is the most 'advanced' piece (in the specific sense of the word) which one could cite from modern poets. Many and strange have been the theories evolved on independent lines, just as numerous weird technical effects have been gained by breaking altogether with the tradition of native prosody. But Mr Monro's poetry continues the tradition; and whether it be in content or in form, it has pushed forward, in the normal manner of healthy growth, from the stage immediately preceding.

The new technical features are clear enough, and all owe their origin to a determination to gain the greatest possible freedom within the laws of English versification. Rhyme is no longer a merely decorative figure, gorgeous but tyrannical. It is an instrument of potential range and power, to be used with restraint by an austere artist. In "Children of Love" it occurs just often enough to convey the gentle sadness of the emotional atmosphere. But very beautiful effects are gained without it, as, for instance, in another of these later poems, called "Great City"--

When I returned at sunset, The serving-maid was singing softly Under the dark stairs, and in the house Twilight had entered like a moonray.

Time was so dead I could not understand The meaning of midday or of midnight, But like falling waters, falling, hissing, falling, Silence seemed an everlasting sound.

The verse is not now commonly marked by an exact number of syllables or feet, nor the stanza divided into a regular number of verses, except where the subject requires precision of effect. An order of recurrence does exist, however, giving the definite form essential to poetry. But it is determined by factors which make for greater naturalness and flexibility than the hard-and-fast division into ten-or eight-foot lines and stanzas of a precise pattern. The ruling influences now are various--the thought which is to be expressed, and the phases through which it pa.s.ses: the nature and strength of the emotion, the ebb and flow of the poetic impulse.

Thus, while metrical rhythm is retained, it has been freed from its former monotonous regularity, and has become almost infinitely varied.

The dissyllable, dominant hitherto, has taken a much humbler place.

Every metre into which English words will run is now adopted, and fresh combinations are constantly being made; while upon the poetic rhythm itself is superimposed the natural rhythm of speech. In most of these devices Mr Monro, and others, are presumably following the precept and example of the Laureate; but in any case there can be no doubt of the richness, suppleness, and variety of the metrical effects attained. Most of the pieces in this little chapbook ill.u.s.trate at some point the influence of untrammelled speech-rhythm; and in one, called "Hearthstone," it is rather accentuated. I quote from the poem for that reason: the slight excess will enable the device to be observed more readily, but will not obscure other characteristic qualities which are clearly marked here--of tenderness, quiet tone, and delicate colouring.

I want nothing but your fireside now.

Your book has dropped unnoticed: you have read So long you cannot send your brain to bed.

The low quiet room and all its things are caught And linger in the meshes of your thought.

(Some people think they know time cannot pause.) Your eyes are closing now though not because Of sleep. You are searching something with your brain; You have let the old dog's paw drop down again ...

Now suddenly you hum a little catch, And pick up the book. The wind rattles the latch; There's a patter of light cool rain and the curtain shakes; The silly dog growls, moves, and almost wakes.

The kettle near the fire one moment hums.

Then a long peace upon the whole room comes.

So the sweet evening will draw to its bedtime end.

I want nothing now but your fireside, friend.

Thus the technique of modern poetry would seem to be moving towards a more exact rendering of the music and the meaning of our language. That is to say, there is, in prosody itself, an impulse towards truth of expression, which may be found to correspond to the heightened sense of external fact in contemporary poetic genius, as well as to its closer hold upon reality. Thence comes the realism of much good poetry now being written: triune, as all genuine realism must be, since it proceeds out of a spiritual conviction, a mental process and actual craftsmanship. That Mr Monro's work is also trending in this direction, almost every piece in his last little book will testify. And if it seem a surprising fact, that is only because one has found it necessary to quote from the more subjective of his early lyrics. It would have been possible, out of the narrative called "Judas," or the "Impressions" at the end of _Before Dawn_, to indicate this poet's objective power. He has a gift of detachment; of cool and exact observation; and to this is joined a dexterity of satiric touch which serves indignation well. Hence the portraits of the epicure at the Carlton and the city swindler in the role of county gentleman. Hence, too, poems like "The Virgin" or "A Suicide": though here it is unfortunate that imagination has been allowed to play upon abnormal subjects. The result may be an acute psychological study; and interesting on that account. But if it is to be a choice between two extremes, most people will prefer work in which fantasy has gone off to a region in the opposite direction. There is one poem in which this bizarre sprite has taken holiday; and thence comes the piece of glimmering unreality called "Overheard on a Saltmarsh."

Nymph, nymph, what are your beads?