Chapter 6
The best of his poetry is in _Homeward Songs by the Way_ (1894) and _The Earth Breath and Other Poems_. Yeats has spoken of these poems as "revealing in all things a kind of scented flame consuming them from within."
THE GREAT BREATH
Its edges foamed with amethyst and rose, Withers once more the old blue flower of day: There where the ether like a diamond glows, Its petals fade away.
A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air; Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows; The great deep thrills--for through it everywhere The breath of Beauty blows.
I saw how all the trembling ages past, Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath, Near'd to the hour when Beauty breathes her last And knows herself in death.
THE UNKNOWN GOD
Far up the dim twilight fluttered Moth-wings of vapour and flame: The lights danced over the mountains, Star after star they came.
The lights grew thicker unheeded, For silent and still were we; Our hearts were drunk with a beauty Our eyes could never see.
_Stephen Phillips_
Born in 1868, Stephen Phillips is best known as the author of _Herod_ (1900), _Paola and Francesca_ (1899), and _Ulysses_ (1902); a poetic playwright who succeeded in reviving, for a brief interval, the blank verse drama on the modern stage. Hailed at first with extravagant and almost incredible praise, Phillips lived to see his most popular dramas discarded and his new ones, such as _Pietro of Siena_ (1910), unproduced and unnoticed.
Phillips failed to "restore" poetic drama because he was, first of all, a lyric rather than a dramatic poet. In spite of certain moments of rhetorical splendor, his scenes are spectacular instead of emotional; his inspiration is too often derived from other models. He died in 1915.
FRAGMENT FROM "HEROD"
_Herod speaks_: I dreamed last night of a dome of beaten gold To be a counter-glory to the Sun. There shall the eagle blindly dash himself, There the first beam shall strike, and there the moon Shall aim all night her argent archery; And it shall be the tryst of sundered stars, The haunt of dead and dreaming Solomon; Shall send a light upon the lost in Hell, And flashings upon faces without hope.-- And I will think in gold and dream in silver, Imagine in marble and conceive in bronze, Till it shall dazzle pilgrim nations And stammering tribes from undiscovered lands, Allure the living God out of the bliss, And all the streaming seraphim from heaven.
BEAUTIFUL LIE THE DEAD
Beautiful lie the dead; Clear comes each feature; Satisfied not to be, Strangely contented.
Like ships, the anchor dropped, Furled every sail is; Mirrored with all their masts In a deep water.
A DREAM
My dead love came to me, and said: 'God gives me one hour's rest, To spend with thee on earth again: How shall we spend it best?'
'Why, as of old,' I said; and so We quarrelled, as of old: But, when I turned to make my peace, That one short hour was told.
_Laurence Binyon_
Laurence Binyon was born at Lancaster, August 10, 1869, a cousin of Stephen Phillips; in _Primavera_ (1890) their early poems appeared together. Binyon's subsequent volumes showed little distinction until he published _London Visions_, which, in an enlarged edition in 1908, revealed a gift of characterization and a turn of speech in surprising contrast to his previous academic _Lyrical Poems_ (1894). His _Odes_ (1901) contains his ripest work; two poems in particular, "The Threshold" and "The Bacchanal of Alexander," are glowing and unusually spontaneous.
Binyon's power has continued to grow; age has given his verse a new sharpness. "The House That Was," one of his most recent poems, appeared in _The London Mercury_, November, 1919.
A SONG
For Mercy, Courage, Kindness, Mirth, There is no measure upon earth. Nay, they wither, root and stem, If an end be set to them.
Overbrim and overflow, If your own heart you would know; For the spirit born to bless Lives but in its own excess.
THE HOUSE THAT WAS
Of the old house, only a few crumbled Courses of brick, smothered in nettle and dock, Or a squared stone, lying mossy where it tumbled! Sprawling bramble and saucy thistle mock What once was firelit floor and private charm Where, seen in a windowed picture, hills were fading At dusk, and all was memory-coloured and warm, And voices talked, secure from the wind's invading.
Of the old garden, only a stray shining Of daffodil flames amid April's cuckoo-flowers, Or a cluster of aconite mixt with weeds entwining! But, dark and lofty, a royal cedar towers By homely thorns: whether the white rain drifts Or sun scorches, he holds the downs in ken, The western vale; his branchy tiers he lifts, Older than many a generation of men.
_Alfred Douglas_
Lord Alfred Douglas was born in 1870 and educated at Magdalen College, Oxford. He was the editor of _The Academy_ from 1907 to 1910 and was at one time the intimate friend of Oscar Wilde. One of the minor poets of "the eighteen-nineties," several of his poems rise above his own affectations and the end-of-the-century decadence. _The City of the Soul_ (1899) and _Sonnets_ (1900) contain his most graceful writing.
THE GREEN RIVER
I know a green grass path that leaves the field And, like a running river, winds along Into a leafy wood, where is no throng Of birds at noon-day; and no soft throats yield Their music to the moon. The place is sealed, An unclaimed sovereignty of voiceless song, And all the unravished silences belong To some sweet singer lost, or unrevealed.
So is my soul become a silent place.... Oh, may I wake from this uneasy night To find some voice of music manifold. Let it be shape of sorrow with wan face, Or love that swoons on sleep, or else delight That is as wide-eyed as a marigold.
_T. Sturge Moore_
Thomas Sturge Moore was born March 4, 1870. He is well known not only as an author, but as a critic and wood-engraver. As an artist, he has achieved no little distinction and has designed the covers for the poetry of W. B. Yeats and others. As a poet, the greater portion of his verse is severely classical in tone, academic in expression but, of its kind, distinctive and intimate. Among his many volumes, the most outstanding are _The Vinedresser and Other Poems_ (1899), _A Sicilian Idyll_ (1911) and _The Sea Is Kind_ (1914).
THE DYING SWAN
O silver-throated Swan Struck, struck! A golden dart Clean through thy breast has gone Home to thy heart. Thrill, thrill, O silver throat! O silver trumpet, pour Love for defiance back On him who smote! And brim, brim o'er With love; and ruby-dye thy track Down thy last living reach Of river, sail the golden light-- Enter the sun's heart--even teach O wondrous-gifted Pain, teach Thou The God of love, let him learn how!
SILENCE SINGS
So faint, no ear is sure it hears, So faint and far; So vast that very near appears My voice, both here and in each star Unmeasured leagues do bridge between; Like that which on a face is seen Where secrets are; Sweeping, like veils of lofty balm, Tresses unbound O'er desert sand, o'er ocean calm, I am wherever is not sound; And, goddess of the truthful face, My beauty doth instil its grace That joy abound.
_William H. Davies_
According to his own biography, William H. Davies was born in a public-house called Church House at Newport, in the County of Monmouthshire, April 20, 1870, of Welsh parents. He was, until Bernard Shaw "discovered" him, a cattleman, a berry-picker, a panhandler--in short, a vagabond. In a preface to Davies' second book, _The Autobiography of a Super-Tramp_ (1906), Shaw describes how the manuscript came into his hands:
"In the year 1905 I received by post a volume of poems by one William H. Davies, whose address was The Farm House, Kensington, S. E. I was surprised to learn that there was still a farmhouse left in Kensington; for I did not then suspect that the Farm House, like the Shepherdess Walks and Nightingale Lane and Whetstone Parks of Bethnal Green and Holborn, is so called nowadays in irony, and is, in fact, a doss-house, or hostelry, where single men can have a night's lodging, for, at most, sixpence.... The author, as far as I could guess, had walked into a printer's or stationer's shop; handed in his manuscript; and ordered his book as he might have ordered a pair of boots. It was marked 'price, half a crown.' An accompanying letter asked me very civilly if I required a half-crown book of verses; and if so, would I please send the author the half crown: if not, would I return the book. This was attractively simple and sensible. I opened the book, and was more puzzled than ever; for before I had read three lines I perceived that the author was a real poet. His work was not in the least strenuous or modern; there was indeed no sign of his ever having read anything otherwise than as a child reads.... Here, I saw, was a genuine innocent, writing odds and ends of verse about odds and ends of things; living quite out of the world in which such things are usually done, and knowing no better (or rather no worse) than to get his book made by the appropriate craftsman and hawk it round like any other ware."
It is more than likely that Davies' first notoriety as a tramp-poet who had ridden the rails in the United States and had had his right foot cut off by a train in Canada, obscured his merits as a genuine singer. Even his early _The Soul's Destroyer_ (1907) revealed that simplicity which is as _naif_ as it is strange. The volumes that followed are more clearly melodious, more like the visionary wonder of Blake, more artistically artless.
With the exception of "The Villain," which has not yet appeared in book form, the following poems are taken from _The Collected Poems of W. H. Davies_ (1916) with the permission of the publisher, Alfred A. Knopf.
DAYS TOO SHORT
When primroses are out in Spring, And small, blue violets come between; When merry birds sing on boughs green, And rills, as soon as born, must sing;
When butterflies will make side-leaps, As though escaped from Nature's hand Ere perfect quite; and bees will stand Upon their heads in fragrant deeps;
When small clouds are so silvery white Each seems a broken rimmed moon-- When such things are, this world too soon, For me, doth wear the veil of Night.
THE MOON
Thy beauty haunts me heart and soul, Oh, thou fair Moon, so close and bright; Thy beauty makes me like the child That cries aloud to own thy light: The little child that lifts each arm To press thee to her bosom warm.
Though there are birds that sing this night With thy white beams across their throats, Let my deep silence speak for me More than for them their sweetest notes: Who worships thee till music fails, Is greater than thy nightingales.
THE VILLAIN
While joy gave clouds the light of stars, That beamed where'er they looked; And calves and lambs had tottering knees, Excited, while they sucked; While every bird enjoyed his song, Without one thought of harm or wrong-- I turned my head and saw the wind, Not far from where I stood, Dragging the corn by her golden hair, Into a dark and lonely wood.
THE EXAMPLE
Here's an example from A Butterfly; That on a rough, hard rock Happy can lie; Friendless and all alone On this unsweetened stone.
Now let my bed be hard, No care take I; I'll make my joy like this Small Butterfly; Whose happy heart has power To make a stone a flower.
_Hilaire Belloc_
Hilaire Belloc, who has been described as "a Frenchman, an Englishman, an Oxford man, a country gentleman, a soldier, a satirist, a democrat, a novelist, and a practical journalist," was born July 27, 1870. After leaving school he served as a driver in the 8th Regiment of French Artillery at Toul Meurthe-et-Moselle, being at that time a French citizen. He was naturalized as a British subject somewhat later, and in 1906 he entered the House of Commons as Liberal Member for South Salford.
As an author, he has engaged in multiple activities. He has written three satirical novels, one of which, _Mr. Clutterbuck's Election_, sharply exposes British newspapers and underground politics. His _Path to Rome_ (1902) is a high-spirited and ever-delightful travel book which has passed through many editions. His historical studies and biographies of _Robespierre_ and _Marie Antoinette_ (1909) are classics of their kind. As a poet he is only somewhat less engaging. His _Verses_ (1910) is a rather brief collection of poems on a wide variety of themes. Although his humorous and burlesque stanzas are refreshing, Belloc is most himself when he writes either of malt liquor or his beloved Sussex. Though his religious poems are full of a fine romanticism, "The South Country" is the most pictorial and persuasive of his serious poems. His poetic as well as his spiritual kinship with G. K. Chesterton is obvious.
THE SOUTH COUNTRY
When I am living in the Midlands That are sodden and unkind, I light my lamp in the evening: My work is left behind; And the great hills of the South Country Come back into my mind.
The great hills of the South Country They stand along the sea; And it's there walking in the high woods That I could wish to be, And the men that were boys when I was a boy Walking along with me.
The men that live in North England I saw them for a day: Their hearts are set upon the waste fells, Their skies are fast and grey; From their castle-walls a man may see The mountains far away.
The men that live in West England They see the Severn strong, A-rolling on rough water brown Light aspen leaves along. They have the secret of the Rocks, And the oldest kind of song.
But the men that live in the South Country Are the kindest and most wise, They get their laughter from the loud surf, And the faith in their happy eyes Comes surely from our Sister the Spring When over the sea she flies; The violets suddenly bloom at her feet, She blesses us with surprise.
I never get between the pines But I smell the Sussex air; Nor I never come on a belt of sand But my home is there. And along the sky the line of the Downs So noble and so bare.
A lost thing could I never find, Nor a broken thing mend: And I fear I shall be all alone When I get towards the end. Who will there be to comfort me Or who will be my friend?
I will gather and carefully make my friends Of the men of the Sussex Weald; They watch the stars from silent folds, They stiffly plough the field. By them and the God of the South Country My poor soul shall be healed.
If I ever become a rich man, Or if ever I grow to be old, I will build a house with deep thatch To shelter me from the cold, And there shall the Sussex songs be sung And the story of Sussex told.
I will hold my house in the high wood Within a walk of the sea, And the men that were boys when I was a boy Shall sit and drink with me.
_Anthony C. Deane_
Anthony C. Deane was born in 1870 and was the Seatonian prizeman in 1905 at Clare College, Cambridge. He has been Vicar of All Saints, Ennismore Gardens, since 1916. His long list of light verse and essays includes several excellent parodies, the most delightful being found in his _New Rhymes for Old_ (1901).
THE BALLAD OF THE _BILLYCOCK_
It was the good ship _Billycock_, with thirteen men aboard, Athirst to grapple with their country's foes,-- A crew, 'twill be admitted, not numerically fitted To navigate a battleship in prose.
It was the good ship _Billycock_ put out from Plymouth Sound, While lustily the gallant heroes cheered, And all the air was ringing with the merry bo'sun's singing, Till in the gloom of night she disappeared.
But when the morning broke on her, behold, a dozen ships, A dozen ships of France around her lay, (Or, if that isn't plenty, I will gladly make it twenty), And hemmed her close in Salamander Bay.
Then to the Lord High Admiral there spake a cabin-boy: "Methinks," he said, "the odds are somewhat great, And, in the present crisis, a cabin-boy's advice is That you and France had better arbitrate!"
"Pooh!" said the Lord High Admiral, and slapped his manly chest, "Pooh! That would be both cowardly and wrong; Shall I, a gallant fighter, give the needy ballad-writer No suitable material for song?"
"Nay--is the shorthand-writer here?--I tell you, one and all, I mean to do my duty, as I ought; With eager satisfaction let us clear the decks for action And fight the craven Frenchmen!" So they fought.
And (after several stanzas which as yet are incomplete, Describing all the fight in epic style) When the _Billycock_ was going, she'd a dozen prizes towing (Or twenty, as above) in single file!
Ah, long in glowing English hearts the story will remain, The memory of that historic day, And, while we rule the ocean, we will picture with emotion The _Billycock_ in Salamander Bay!
_P.S._--I've lately noticed that the critics--who, I think, In praising _my_ productions are remiss-- Quite easily are captured, and profess themselves enraptured, By patriotic ditties such as this,
For making which you merely take some dauntless Englishmen, Guns, heroism, slaughter, and a fleet-- Ingredients you mingle in a metre with a jingle, And there you have your masterpiece complete!
Why, then, with labour infinite, produce a book of verse To languish on the "All for Twopence" shelf? The ballad bold and breezy comes particularly easy-- I mean to take to writing it myself!
A RUSTIC SONG
Oh, I be vun of the useful troibe O' rustic volk, I be; And writin' gennelmen due descroibe The doin's o' such as we; I don't knaw mooch o' corliflower plants, I can't tell 'oes from trowels, But 'ear me mix ma consonants, An' moodle oop all ma vowels!
I talks in a wunnerful dialect That vew can hunderstand, 'Tis Yorkshire-Zummerzet, I expect, With a dash o' the Oirish brand; Sometimes a bloomin' flower of speech I picks from Cockney spots, And when releegious truths I teach, Obsairve ma richt gude Scots!
In most of the bukes, 'twas once the case I 'adn't got much to do, I blessed the 'eroine's purty face, An' I seed the 'ero through; But now, I'm juist a pairsonage! A power o' bukes there be Which from the start to the very last page Entoirely deal with me!
The wit or the point o' what I spakes Ye've got to find if ye can; A wunnerful difference spellin' makes In the 'ands of a competent man! I mayn't knaw mooch o' corliflower plants, I mayn't knaw 'oes from trowels, But I does ma wark, if ma consonants Be properly mixed with ma vowels!
_J. M. Synge_
The most brilliant star of the Celtic revival was born at Rathfarnham, near Dublin, in 1871. As a child in Wicklow, he was already fascinated by the strange idioms and the rhythmic speech he heard there, a native utterance which was his greatest delight and which was to be rich material for his greatest work. He did not use this folk-language merely as he heard it. He was an artist first and last, and as an artist he bent and shaped the rough material, selecting with great fastidiousness, so that in his plays every speech is, as he himself declared all good speech should be, "as fully flavored as a nut or apple." Even in _The Tinker's Wedding_ (1907), possibly the least important of his plays, one is arrested by snatches like:
"That's a sweet tongue you have, Sarah Casey; but if sleep's a grand thing, it's a grand thing to be waking up a day the like of this, when there's a warm sun in it, and a kind air, and you'll hear the cuckoos singing and crying out on the top of the hill."
For some time, Synge's career was uncertain. He went to Germany half intending to become a professional musician. There he studied the theory of music, perfecting himself meanwhile in Gaelic and Hebrew, winning prizes in both of these languages. Yeats found him in France in 1898 and advised him to go to the Aran Islands, to live there as if he were one of the people. "Express a life," said Yeats, "that has never found expression." Synge went. He became part of the life of Aran, living upon salt fish and eggs, talking Irish for the most part but listening also to that beautiful English which, to quote Yeats again, "has grown up in Irish-speaking districts and takes its vocabulary from the time of Malory and of the translators of the Bible, but its idiom and vivid metaphor from Irish." The result of this close contact was five of the greatest poetic prose dramas not only of his own generation, but of several generations preceding it. (See Preface.)
In _Riders to the Sea_ (1903), _The Well of the Saints_ (1905), and _The Playboy of the Western World_ (1907) we have a richness of imagery, a new language startling in its vigor, a wildness and passion that contrast strangely with the suave mysticism and delicate spirituality of his associates in the Irish Theatre.
Synge's _Poems and Translations_ (1910), a volume which was not issued until after his death, contains not only his few hard and earthy verses, but also Synge's theory of poetry. The translations, which have been rendered in a highly intensified prose, are as racy as anything in his plays; his versions of Villon and Petrarch are remarkable for their adherence to the original and still radiate the poet's own personality.
Synge died, just as he was beginning to attain fame, at a private hospital in Dublin March 24, 1909.
BEG-INNISH
Bring Kateen-beug and Maurya Jude To dance in Beg-Innish,[13] And when the lads (they're in Dunquin) Have sold their crabs and fish, Wave fawny shawls and call them in, And call the little girls who spin, And seven weavers from Dunquin, To dance in Beg-Innish.
I'll play you jigs, and Maurice Kean, Where nets are laid to dry, I've silken strings would draw a dance From girls are lame or shy; Four strings I've brought from Spain and France To make your long men skip and prance, Till stars look out to see the dance Where nets are laid to dry.
We'll have no priest or peeler in To dance in Beg-Innish; But we'll have drink from M'riarty Jim Rowed round while gannets fish, A keg with porter to the brim, That every lad may have his whim, Till we up sails with M'riarty Jim And sail from Beg-Innish.
A TRANSLATION FROM PETRARCH
(_He is Jealous of the Heavens and the Earth_)
What a grudge I am bearing the earth that has its arms about her, and is holding that face away from me, where I was finding peace from great sadness.
What a grudge I am bearing the Heavens that are after taking her, and shutting her in with greediness, the Heavens that do push their bolt against so many.
What a grudge I am bearing the blessed saints that have got her sweet company, that I am always seeking; and what a grudge I am bearing against Death, that is standing in her two eyes, and will not call me with a word.
TO THE OAKS OF GLENCREE