Part 4

Pull down the blinds, bring fiddle and clarionet, Let there be no foot silent in the room, Nor mouth with kissing nor the wine unwet. Our Father Rosicross is in his tomb.

In vain, in vain; the cataract still cries, The everlasting taper lights the gloom, All wisdom shut into its onyx eyes. Our Father Rosicross sleeps in his tomb.

_William Butler Yeats_

TO A CHILD DANCING UPON THE SHORE

Dance there upon the shore; What need have you to care For wind or water's roar? And tumble out your hair That the salt drops have wet; Being young you have not known The fool's triumph, nor yet Love lost as soon as won. And he, the best warrior, dead And all the sheaves to bind! What need that you should dread The monstrous crying of wind?

_William Butler Yeats_

FALLEN MAJESTY

Although crowds gathered once if she but showed her face And even old men's eyes grew dim, this hand alone, Like some last courtier at a gipsy camping place Babbling of fallen majesty, records what's gone. The lineaments, the heart that laughter has made sweet, These, these remain, but I record what's gone. A crowd Will gather and not know that through its very street Once walked a thing that seemed, as it were, a burning cloud.

_William Butler Yeats_

LOVE AND THE BIRD

The moments passed as at a play, I had the wisdom love can bring, I had my share of mother wit; And yet for all that I could say, And though I had her praise for it, And she seemed happy as a king, Love's moon was withering away.

Believing every word I said I praised her body and her mind, Till pride had made her eyes grow bright, And pleasure made her cheeks grow red, And vanity her footfall light; Yet we, for all that praise, could find Nothing but darkness overhead.

I sat as silent as a stone And knew, though she'd not said a word, That even the best of love must die, And had been savagely undone Were it not that love, upon the cry Of a most ridiculous little bird, Threw up in the air his marvellous moon.

_William Butler Yeats_

THE REALISTS

Hope that you may understand. What can books, of men that wive In a dragon-guarded land; Paintings of the dolphin drawn; Sea nymphs, in their pearly waggons, Do but wake the hope to live That had gone With the dragons.

_William Butler Yeats_

SANGAR

TO LINCOLN STEFFENS

Somewhere I read a strange, old, rusty tale Smelling of war; most curiously named "The Mad Recreant Knight of the West." Once, you have read, the round world brimmed with hate, Stirred and revolted, flashed unceasingly Facets of cruel splendor. And the strong Harried the weak ... Long past, long past, praise God In these fair, peaceful, happy days. The Tale: Eastward the Huns break border, Surf on a rotten dyke; They have murdered the Eastern Warder (His head on a pike). "Arm thee, arm thee, my father! "Swift rides the Goddes-bane, "And the high nobles gather "On the plain!"

"O blind world-wrath!" cried Sangar, "Greatly I killed in youth, "I dreamed men had done with anger "Through Goddes truth!" Smiled the boy then in faint scorn, Hard with the battle-thrill; "Arm thee, loud calls the war-horn "And shrill!"

He has bowed to the voice stentorian, Sick with thought of the grave-- He has called for his battered morion And his scarred glaive. On the boy's helm a glove Of the Duke's daughter-- In his eyes splendor of love And slaughter.

Hideous the Hun advances Like a sea-tide on sand; Unyielding, the haughty lances Make dauntless stand. And ever amid the clangor, Butchering Hun and Hun, With sorrowful face rides Sangar And his son....

Broken is the wild invader (Sullied, the whole world's fountains); They have penned the murderous raider With his back to the mountains. Yet tho' what had been mead Is now a bloody lake, Still drink swords where men bleed, Nor slake.

Now leaps one into the press-- The Hell 'twixt front and front-- Sangar, bloody and torn of dress (He has borne the brunt). "Hold!" cries "Peace! God's Peace! "Heed ye what Christus says--" And the wild battle gave surcease In amaze.

"When will ye cast out hate? "Brothers--my mad, mad brothers-- "Mercy, ere it be too late, "These are sons of your mothers. "For sake of Him who died on Tree, "Who of all Creatures, loved the Least,"-- "Blasphemer! God of Battles, He!" Cried a priest.

"Peace!" and with his two hands Has broken in twain his glaive. Weaponless, smiling he stands (Coward or brave?) "Traitor!" howls one rank, "Think ye "The Hun be our brother?" And "Fear we to die, craven, think ye?" The other.

Then sprang his son to his side, His lips with slaver were wet, For he had felt how men died And was lustful yet; (On his bent helm a glove Of the Duke's daughter, In his eyes splendor of love And slaughter)--

Shouting, "Father no more of mine! "Shameful old man--abhorr'd, "First traitor of all our line!" Up the two-handed sword. He smote--fell Sangar--and then Screaming, red, the boy ran Straight at the foe, and again Hell began ...

Oh, there was joy in Heaven when Sangar came. Sweet Mary wept, and bathed and bound his wounds, And God the Father healed him of despair, And Jesus gripped his hand, and laughed and laughed ...

_John Reed_

A LEGEND OF THE DOVE

Soft from the linden's bough, Unmoved against the tranquil afternoon, Eve's dove laments her now: "Ah, gone! long gone! shall not I find thee soon?"

That yearning in his voice Told not to Paradise a sorrow's tale: As other birds rejoice He sang, a brother to the nightingale.

By twilight on her breast He saw the flower sleep, the star awake; And calling her from rest, Made all the dawn melodious for her sake.

And then the Tempter's breath, The sword of exile and the mortal chain-- The heritage of death That gave her heart to dust, his own to pain ...

In Eden desolate The seraph heard his lonely music swoon, As now, reiterate; "Ah gone! long gone! shall not I find thee soon?"

_George Sterling_

AT THE GRAND CAÑON

Thou settest splendors in my sight, O Lord! It seems as tho' a deep-hued sunset falls Forever on these Cyclopean walls-- These battlements where Titan hosts have warred, And hewn the world with devastating sword, And shook with trumpets the eternal halls Where seraphim lay hid by bloody palls And only Hell and Silence were adored.

Lo! the abyss wherein great Satan's wings Might gender tempests, and his dragons' breath Fume up in pestilence. Beneath the sun Or starry outposts on terrestrial things, Is no such testimony unto Death Nor altars builded to Oblivion.

_George Sterling_

KINDRED

Musing, between the sunset and the dark, As Twilight in unhesitating hands Bore from the faint horizon's underlands, Silvern and chill, the moon's phantasmal ark, I heard the sea, and far away could mark Where that unalterable waste expands In sevenfold sapphire from the mournful sands, And saw beyond the deep a vibrant spark.

There sank the sun Arcturus, and I thought: Star, by an ocean on a world of thine, May not a being, born like me to die, Confront a little the eternal Naught And watch our isolated sun decline-- Sad for his evanescence, even as I?

_George Sterling_

REMEMBERED LIGHT

The years are a falling of snow, Slow, but without cessation, On hills and mountains and flowers and worlds that were; But snow and the crawling night in which it fell May be washed away in one swifter hour of flame. Thus it was that some slant of sunset In the chasms of piled cloud-- Transient mountains that made a new horizon, Uplifting the west to fantastic pinnacles-- Smote warm in a buried realm of the spirit, Till the snows of forgetfulness were gone.

Clear in the vistas of memory, The peaks of a world long unremembered, Soared further than clouds, but fell not, Based on hills that shook not nor melted With that burden enormous, hardly to be believed. Rent with stupendous chasms, Full of an umber twilight, I beheld that larger world.

Bright was the twilight, sharp like ethereal wine Above, but low in the clefts it thickened, Dull as with duskier tincture. Like whimsical wings outspread but unstirring, Flowers that seemed spirits of the twilight, That must pass with its passing-- Too fragile for day or for darkness, Fed the dusk with more delicate hues than its own. Stars that were nearer, more radiant than ours, Quivered and pulsed in the clear thin gold of the sky.

These things I beheld, Till the gold was shaken with flight Of fantastical wings like broken shadows, Forerunning the darkness; Till the twilight shivered with outcry of eldritch voices, Like pain's last cry ere oblivion.

_Clark Ashton Smith_

SORROWING OF WINDS

O winds that pass uncomforted Through all the peacefulness of spring, And tell the trees your sorrowing, That they must moan till ye are fled!

Think ye the Tyrian distance holds The crystal of unquestioned sleep? That those forgetful purples keep No veiled, contentious greens and golds?

Half with communicated grief, Half that they are not free to pass With you across the flickering grass, Mourns each vibrating bough and leaf.

And I, with soul disquieted, Shall find within the haunted spring No peace, till your strange sorrowing Is down the Tyrian distance fled.

_Clark Ashton Smith_

AMERICA

_I hear America singing_ ... And the great prophet passed, Serene, clear and untroubled Into the silence vast.

When will the master-poet Rise, with vision strong, To mold her manifold music Into a living song?

_I hear America singing_ ... Beyond the beat and stress, The chant of her shrill, unjaded, Empiric loveliness.

Laughter, beyond mere scorning, Wisdom surpassing wit, Love, and the unscathed spirit, These shall encompass it.

_Alice Corbin_

SYMBOLS

Who was it built the cradle of wrought gold? A druid, chanting by the waters old. Who was it kept the sword of vision bright? A warrior, falling darkly in the fight. Who was it put the crown upon the dove? A woman, paling in the arms of love. Oh, who but these, since Adam ceased to be, Have kept their ancient guard about the Tree?

_Alice Corbin_

THE STAR

I saw a star fall in the night, And a grey moth touched my cheek; Such majesty immortals have, Such pity for the weak.

_Alice Corbin_

NODES

The endless, foolish merriment of stars Beside the pale cold sorrow of the moon, Is like the wayward noises of the world Beside my heart's uplifted silent tune.

The little broken glitter of the waves Beside the golden sun's intense white blaze, Is like the idle chatter of the crowd Beside my heart's unwearied song of praise.

The sun and all the planets in the sky Beside the sacred wonder of dim space, Are notes upon a broken, tarnished lute That God will someday mend and put in place.

And space, beside the little secret joy Of God that sings forever in the clay, Is smaller than the dust we can not see, That yet dies not, till time and space decay.

And as the foolish merriment of stars Beside the cold pale sorrow of the moon, My little song, my little joy, my praise, Beside God's ancient, everlasting rune.

_Alice Corbin_

POEMS

I

Thou hast made me known to friends whom I knew not. Thou hast given me seats in homes not my own. Thou hast brought the distant near and made a brother of the stranger. I am uneasy at heart when I have to leave my accustomed shelter; I forgot that there abides the old in the new, and that there also thou abidest.

Through birth and death, in this world or in others, wherever thou leadest me it is thou, the same, the one companion of my endless life who ever linkest my heart with bonds of joy to the unfamiliar. When one knows thee, then alien there is none, then no door is shut. Oh, grant me my prayer that I may never lose the bliss of the touch of the One in the play of the many.

II

No more noisy, loud words from me, such is my master's will. Henceforth I deal in whispers. The speech of my heart will be carried on in murmurings of a song.

Men hasten to the King's market. All the buyers and sellers are there. But I have my untimely leave in the middle of the day, in the thick of work.

Let then the flowers come out in my garden, though it is not their time, and let the midday bees strike up their lazy hum.

Full many an hour have I spent in the strife of the good and the evil, but now it is the pleasure of my playmate of the empty days to draw my heart on to him, and I know not why is this sudden call to what useless inconsequence!

III

On the day when the lotus bloomed, alas, my mind was straying, and I knew it not. My basket was empty and the flower remained unheeded.

Only now and again a sadness fell upon me, and I started up from my dream and felt a sweet trace of a strange smell in the south wind.

That vague fragrance made my heart ache with longing, and it seemed to me that it was the eager breath of the summer seeking for its completion.

I knew not then that it was so near, that it was mine, and this perfect sweetness had blossomed in the depth of my own heart.

IV

By all means they try to hold me secure who love me in this world. But it is otherwise with thy love, which is greater than theirs, and thou keepest me free. Lest I forget them they never venture to leave me alone. But day passes by after day and thou are not seen.

If I call not thee in my prayers, if I keep not thee in my heart--thy love for me still waits for my love.

V

I was not aware of the moment when I first crossed the threshold of this life. What was the power that made me open out into this vast mystery like a bud in the forest at midnight? When in the morning I looked upon the light I felt in a moment that I was no stranger in this world, that the inscrutable without name and form had taken me in its arms in the form of my own mother. Even so, in death the same unknown will appear as ever known to me. And because I love this life, I know I shall love death as well. The child cries out when from the right breast the mother takes it away to find in the very next moment its consolation in the left one.

VI

Thou art the sky and thou art the nest as well. Oh, thou beautiful, there in the nest it is thy love that encloses the soul with colours and sounds and odours. There comes the morning with the golden basket in her right hand bearing the wreath of beauty, silently to crown the earth. And there comes the evening over the lonely meadows deserted by herds, through trackless paths, carrying cool draughts of peace in her golden pitcher from the western ocean of rest.

But there, where spreads the infinite sky for the soul to take her flight in, reigns the stainless white radiance. There is no day nor night, nor form nor colour, and never never a word.

_Rabindranath Tagore_

EDITORIAL COMMENT

A PERFECT RETURN

It is curious that the influence of Poe upon Baudelaire, Verlaine, and Mallarmé, and through them upon English poets, and then through these last upon Americans, comes back to us in this round-about and indirect way. We have here an instance of what Whitman calls a "perfect return." We have denied Poe, we do not give him his full meed of appreciation even today, and yet we accept him through the disciples who have followed or have assimilated his tradition. And now that young Englishmen are beginning to feel the influence of Whitman upon French poetry, it may be that he too, through the imitation of _vers libre_ in America, will begin to experience a "perfect return."

Must we always accept American genius in this round-about fashion? Have we no true perspective that we applaud mediocrity at home, and look abroad for genius, only to find that it is of American origin?

* * * * *

This bit of marginalia, extracted from a note-book of 1909, was relieved of the necessity of further elaboration by supplementary evidence received in one day from two correspondents. One, a brief sentence from Mr. Allen Upward: "It is much to be wished that America should learn to honor her sons without waiting for the literary cliques of London."

The other, the following "news note" from Mr. Paul Scott Mowrer in Paris. The date of Léon Bazalgette's translation, however, is hardly so epochal as it would seem, since Whitman has been known for many years in France, having been partly translated during the nineties.

Mr. Mowrer writes:

"It is significant of American tardiness in the development of a national literary tradition that the name of Walt Whitman is today a greater influence with the young writers of the continent than with our own. Not since France discovered Poe has literary Europe been so moved by anything American. The suggestion has even been made that 'Whitmanism' is rapidly to supersede 'Nietzscheism' as the dominant factor in modern thought. Léon Bazalgette translated _Leaves of Grass_ into French in 1908. A school of followers of the Whitman philosophy and style was an almost immediate consequence. Such of the leading reviews as sympathize at all with the strong 'young' movement to break the shackles of classicism which have so long bound French prosody to the heroic couplet, the sonnet, and the alexandrine, are publishing not only articles on 'Whitmanism' as a movement, but numbers of poems in the new flexible chanting rhythms. In this regard _La Nouvelle Revue Francaise_, _La Renaissance Contemporaine_, and _L'Effort Libre_ have been preëminently hospitable.

"The new poems are not so much imitations of Whitman as inspirations from him. Those who have achieved most success in the mode thus far are perhaps Georges Duhamel, a leader of the 'Jeunes,' whose plays are at present attracting national notice; André Spire, who writes with something of the apostolic fervor of his Jewish ancestry; Henri Franck, who died recently, shortly after the publication of his volume, _La Danse Devant l'Arche_; Charles Vildrac, with _Le Livre d'Amour_; Philéas Lebesgue, the appearance in collected form of whose _Les Servitudes_ is awaited with keen interest; and finally, Jean Richard Bloch, editor of _L'Effort Libre_, whose prose, for example in his book of tales entitled _Levy_, is said to be directly rooted in Whitmanism.

"In Germany, too, the rolling intonations of the singer of democracy have awakened echoes. The _Moderne Weltdichtung_ has announced itself, with Whitman as guide, and such apostles as Wilhelm Schmidtbonn, in _Lobegesang des Lebens_, and Ernst Lissauer in _Der Acker_ and _Der Strom_.

"What is it about Whitman that Europe finds so inspiriting? First, his acceptance of the universe as he found it, his magnificently shouted comradeship with all nature and all men. Such a doctrine makes an instant though hardly logical appeal in nations where socialism is the political order of the day. And next, his disregard of literary tradition. Out of books more books, and out of them still more, with the fecundity of generations. But in this process of literary propagation thought, unfortunately, instead of arising like a child ever fresh and vigorous as in the beginning, grows more and more attenuated, paler, more sickly. The acclaim of Whitman is nothing less than the inevitable revolt against the modern flood of book-inspired books. Write from nature directly, from the people directly, from the political meeting, and the hayfield, and the factory--that is what the august American seems to his young disciples across the seas to be crying to them.

"Perhaps it is because America already holds as commonplaces these fundamentals seeming so new to Europe that the Whitman schools have sprung up stronger on the eastern side of the Atlantic than on the western."

It is not that America holds as commonplaces the fundamentals expressed in Whitman that there have been more followers of the Whitman method in Europe than in America, but that American poets, approaching poetry usually through terms of feeling, and apparently loath to apply an intellectual whip to themselves or others, have made no definite analysis of the rhythmic units of Whitman. We have been content to accept the English conception of the "barbaric yawp" of Whitman. The curious mingling of the concrete and the spiritual, which is what certain modern painters, perhaps under the Whitman suggestion, are trying to achieve, was so novel as to be disconcerting, and the vehicle so original as to appear uncouth--uncadenced, unmusical. The hide-bound, antiquated conception of English prosody is responsible for a great deal of dead timber. It is a significant fact that the English first accepted the spirit of Whitman, the French his method. The rhythmic measure of Whitman has yet to be correctly estimated by English and American poets. It has been sifted and weighed by the French poets, and though Whitman's influence upon modern French poetry has been questioned by English critics, the connection between his varied rhythmic units and modern _vers libre_ is too obvious to be discounted. There may be an innate necessity sufficient to cause a breaking-up of forms in a poetic language, but there is no reason to believe that Paris, the great clearing-house of all the arts, would not be quick to adopt a suggestion from without. English poets, certainly, have not been loath to accept suggestions from Paris.

At any rate this international acceptance of the two greatest American poets, and the realization of their international influence upon us, may awaken us to a new sense of responsibility. It would be a valuable lesson, if only we could learn to turn the international eye, in private, upon ourselves. If the American poet can learn to be less parochial, to apply the intellectual whip, to visualize his art, to separate it and see it apart from himself; we may learn then to appreciate the great poet when he is "in our midst." and not wait for the approval of English or French critics.

_A. C. H._

TAGORE'S POEMS

The appearance of the poems of Rabindranath Tagore, translated by himself from Bengali into English, is an event in the history of English poetry and of world poetry. I do not use these terms with the looseness of contemporary journalism. Questions of poetic art are serious, not to be touched upon lightly or in a spirit of bravura.

Bengal is a nation of fifty million people. The great age of Bengali literature is this age in which we live. And the first Bengali whom I heard singing the lyrics of Tagore said, as simply as one would say it is four o'clock, "Yes, we speak of it as the Age of Rabindranath."