The Advance of English Poetry in the Twentieth Century Part 14

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 occasionally he arrests the ear with a deeper note. The first four lines of the following pa.s.sage, taken from _An Old Pain_, might fittingly apply to a personality 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 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 Mitch.e.l.l. 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 suffering. It is not the spirit of acquiescence or of resignation, but rather dauntless triumphant affirmation. 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 ill.u.s.tration:

THE HEART'S LOW DOOR

O Earth, I will have none of thee.

Alien to me the lonely plain, And the rough pa.s.sion 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 gra.s.s, 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.

Thomas MacDonagh (1878-1916) was, like so many of the young Irish writers of the twentieth century, both scholar and poet. In 1916 he published a prose critical work, _Literature in Ireland,_ in which his two pa.s.sions, 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--exhibit the familiar yet melancholy disparity between 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 sufficient 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.

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.

G.o.d 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 Maccathmhaoil, 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 superst.i.tions. 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 striking 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 upturned 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 l.u.s.ty hands.

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 O'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 manner. The younger poet has the secret of melody and his verses show a high degree of technical excellence; but in these respects he no more resembles 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 does not mean that he 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 born 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 cla.s.s in the Final Honour Schools, and becoming a Fellow of All Souls. His poetical reputation, which began with the appearance of _Apollo and the Seaman,_ in 1907, has been perceptibly heightened by the publication in 1918 of his collected works in two volumes, _Poems, with 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 architectural 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,_ published 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 O'Conor is a young Irish-American, a graduate of Harvard, and has already published three volumes of verse, _Celtic Memories,_ which appeared in England in 1913, _Beside the Blackwater,_ 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 residence, of Irish ancestry, he draws his inspiration almost wholly from Celtic lore and Celtic scenes. He is a natural singer, whose art is steadily increasing 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 figures 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 modern Irish poetry is spiritual rather than hearty.

Whatever may be thought of the appropriateness of the term "Advance of English Poetry" for my survey of the modern 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 recognized with respect for its achievement, and with faith in its future.

CHAPTER VII

AMERICAN VETERANS 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 Johnson--his moral idealism--Richard Burton--his healthy optimism--his growth--Edwin Markham and his famous poem--Ella Wheeler Wilc.o.x--her additions to our language--Edmund Vance Cooke--Edith M. Thomas--Henry van d.y.k.e--George E.

Woodberry--his spiritual and ethereal quality--William Dudley Foulke--translator of Petrarch--the late H. K. Viele--his whimsicality--Cale Young Rice--his prolific production--his versatility--Josephine P. Peabody--_Sursum Corda_--her child poems--Edwin Arlington Robinson--a forerunner of the modern 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 singing 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 gla.s.s may ultimately force us to cla.s.sify the songsters into wild poets, gamy poets, barnyard poets, poets that hunt and are hunted.

But in the last decade of the last century, poets other than migratory, poets who were winter residents, were sufficiently uncommon. Indeed the courage required to call oneself a poet was considerable.

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 next 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 born at Spencer, on the eighth of July, 1869. He was graduated at Harvard, and after teaching there, he became a member of the English Department 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 n.o.ble dignity, a pure serenity in his work, which make for immortality. This dignity is never a.s.sumed; 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 cla.s.sic, 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, 1863. 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 resigned 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 exquisitely written. He is an artist in prose and verse, and it seems unfortunate that his professorial activity--as in the case of A.

E. Housman--choked his Muse. For art has this eternal advantage over learning. n.o.body 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 Theological Tragedy._ No living American has written finer sonnets than our philosopher. In sincerity 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 pa.s.sionate 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 sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e, And ancient quiet broods from pole to pole.

O world, thou choosest not the better part!

It is not wisdom to be only wise, And on the inward vision close 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 all 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 OF SCHOLASTIC PHILOSOPHY

What chilly cloister or what lattice dim Cast painted light upon this careful page?