MR. GILDER'S "NEW DAY."*

THE poetry of culture, as distinguished from the poetry produced by what, for lack of a better term, we call "poetical inspiration," is sure to have many disciples in a literary and highly-civilised age. Knowledge gives refinement and light, an intimate acquaintance with poetry produces poetical sensibility ; the ear is gradually trained to harmony, the words of immortal singers linger in the memory, Nature speaks through their voice, and life itself—at. least, in the early days of manhood—becomes transformed and glorified by the noble imagination and lovely music of our country's poets. A young man's subjection to the men whose words have given him high impulses and generous aspirations is alike natural and honourable. It is not to be wondered at if for a time he see with their eyes, hear with their ears, and walk piously in their footsteps. In art, as well as in social and political life, we are infinitely indebted to those who have gone before us, and it may be confidently said that every artist and poet owes an. obligation, not readily to be discharged, to one or more of his pre- decessors. There comes, however, a time in the life of a man of genius when these obligations assist without restraining him,—a time when he is able to stand alone, and to. produce independent work. On the other hand, the painter or the verse-maker, whose sensibility and culture enable him to simulate genius, can never attain this freedom. His work, however able, is but imitative work, and it is the critic's hardest task to distinguish between the productions that owe their source to what has been wisely termed the ineradicable bent of nature, and those that are the product of wide knowledge, refined feeling, and a cultivated taste.

This familiar distinction can never be lost sight of in these days, and it has occurred to us with no little force, while reading the songs and sonnets that fill Mr. Gilder's dainty-looking volume. The author is assuredly no common-place versifier. He is, to some extent, a master of his instrument. His language is often well chosen, his thoughts are often subtle, he is not without a sense of harmony, nor destitute of poetical sensibility. These virtues, however, do not suffice to make a poet, and the question to be answered is whether there are intimations in this volume of the creative power, of the divine vision and faculty which separate the poet from the verseman. We fear that our judgment in this respect must be adverse to Mr. Gilder's claims. He belongs to a fantastic school of poetry, and owns as his masters certain living poets, whose mystic and erotic verse contains, with much that is beautiful, not a little that is quaint and elaborately grotesque, exhibiting in its structure more of culture than of spontaneity.

Love forms the subject of Mr. Gilder's poetry, and the form of verse which appears to attract him most strongly is the sonnet. In the construction of these poems there is no lack of skilful handling, but the impulse of the poet is frequently wanting, and in its place we have obscure allusions, extravagant imagery, and

* The New Day: a Poem in Songs and Sonnets. By Richard Watson Gilder. New York : Scribner and Co. London: Sampson Low.

echoes from the songs of earlier poets. In one of the sonnets he celebrates the beauty of a lady, whose "meek, proud, solemn face" is so white, that there is no poet's poesy which would not make a pitiful blot, if laid against it ; in another, maiden Love reveals to him her "beautiful, singing, holy soul ;" in a third, the poet avers that the one thing from which he would save his mistress is the lightning of his love ; in a fourth, he makes the following extravagant assertion, in which the lack of good-taste is as conspicuous as the want of right feeling :—

" Thou art my dream come true, and thou my dream, The air I breathe, the world wherein I dwell ; My journey's end thou art, and thou the way ; Thou art what I would be, yet only seem; Thou art my heaven, and thou art my hell, Thou art my ever-living judgment-day."

Among the sonnets, a few might be pointed out in which Mr. Gilder does more justice to himself and to his subject, and although imitative notes may be detected even in these, they are not without some melody and sweetness. In the following, readers may recall a sonnet written by Sir Philip Sidney, but the modern writer's treatment of his theme differs considerably from that of the Elizabethan poet :—

"Thy lover, Love, would have some nobler way

To tell his love, his noble love to tell, Than in these rhymes that ring like silver bell.

Oh! he would lead an army, great and gay, From conquering to conquer, day by day ; And when the walls of a proud citadel

At summons of his guns loud echoing fell,—

That thunder to his Love should murmuring say : Thee only do I love, dear Love of mine!' • And while men cried, 'Behold, how brave a fight !'

She should read well, oh well, each new emprise: This to her lips, this to my lady's eyes !

And though the world were conquered, line on line, Still would his love be speechless, day and night."

Mr. Gilder's love sonnets are occasionally objectionable in tone, and frequently obscure in thought ; but several of his short lyrics, on the other hand, are unaffected and simple, and encourage us in the belief that he may yet discard the evil influences which lead him poetically astray. Now and then silliness, or at best, feeble- ness, is mistaken for simplicity, as in the following stanza :—

" I love her gentle forehead, And I love her tender hair ; I love her cool, white arms, And her neck where it is bare."

But the writer's songs and songlets are sometimes very pleasing, and if they do not make clear Mr. Gilder's title to be called a poet, they show that he is not without happy thoughts which he can utter with rhythmical sweetness. The following lines, written in some joyous moment, have in them the sweetness of a summer day and the fragrance of its flowers :— " 0 sweet, wild roses that bud and blow Along the way that my Love may go; 0 moss-green rocks that touch her dress, And grass that her dear face may press ; 0 maple tree, whose brooding shade For her a summer tent has made ; 0 golden-rod and brave sun-flower, That flame before my maiden's bower ;

0 butterfly, on whose light wings The golden summer sunshine clings ; 0 birds that flit o'er wheat and wall, And from cool hollows pipe and call ; 0 falling waters, whose distant roar Sounds like the waves upon the shore ; 0 winds that down the valley sweep, And lightnings from the clouds that leap ; 0 skies that bend above the hills, 0 gentle rains and babbling rills, 0 moon and sun that beam and burn— Keep safe my Love till I return!"

A little piece, called "Once More," would deserve praise for melodious versification, were it not too evidently an echo of Mr. Tennyson. We quote in preference a tiny song, which is light and graceful enough to be set to music :—

"Summer's rain and winter's snow With the seasons come and go ; Shine and shower ;

Tender bud and perfect flower; Silver blossom, golden fruit ; Song and lute, With their inward sound of pain ; Winter's snow and summer's rain ; Frost andfire ;

Joy beyond the heart's desire,—

And our June comes round again."

"A. Birthday Song," being very brief, may also be quoted as a fair specimen of Mr. Gilder's craft as a lyrist :—

" I thought this day to bring to thee A flower that grows on the red-rose tree.

I searched the branches,—oh, despair ! Of roses every branch was bare.

I thought to sing thee a birthday song As wild as my love, as deep and strong. The song took wing like a frighted bird, And its music my maiden never heard.

But, Love ! the flower and the song divine One day of the year shall yet be thine; And thou shalt be glad when that rose I bring, And weep for joy at the song I sing."

The writer apparently uses the pencil as well as the pen, for his pages are adorned with graceful vignettes of leaf and flower. The entire volume, indeed, contains evidence of honest labour and careful workmanship, and if we cannot give Mr. Gilder the praise dearest to the versifier who brings his poems before the public we can at least express the hope and confidence that if he be a young man, and this his first venture, we shall hear of him again, when he is more thoroughly equipped for literary achievements. It is even possible, although, in our judgment, by no means probable, that he may prove a poet ; if not, the use of verse is often the pre- lude to success in prose composition. It is scarcely likely that the fair literary qualities displayed, with many drawbacks, in this little book, will not produce some more and maturer fruit in the years to come.