LYRA. CELTIC1. 5 THE Celtic revival is especially active in the

domain of poetry. The Celt is nothing if not poetical, and there- fore, whenever his intellectual activity is aroused, he turns naturally to verse. How large is the number of contem- porary Celtic poets is proved by the present interesting selec- tion. That portion of it which is devoted to modern writers contains poems by some seventy or eighty poets, and of these many, if not most, are actually alive. If, then, the present movement is maintained, and so great a number of our modern verse-writers continue to follow Celtic ideals in literature and to imitate Celtic models, it is pretty certain that the effect will be very strong on our literature. An active and enthusiastic body of writers inspired by the Celtic spirit are certain to import a new influence into our literature. Will that influence be for good or ill P The answer is a very • (1.) Lyriea Celtica : an Anthology of Representettve Celtic Poetry. Ed:ted by Elizabeth A. Sharp. With Introduction and Nctes by William Sharp. Edin- burgh: Patrick Geddes and Colleague'. 1896.—(2.) Irish Ballad& and Seaga. " The Penny Poet%." difficult one to give. We yield to none in our admiration of what Matthew Arnold called the natural magic of Celtic verse. There is undoubtedly a charm and a fascination about the old Erse poetry which it would be difficult to exaggerate, —that subtle and mysterious charm which Wordsworth described so exactly in his famous phrase of "old unhappy far-off things, and battles long ago." But though the pure Celtic poetry is delightful in a high degree, we are not sure that we like the poetry, which is English poetry with a strong Celtic admixture. The genius of the English language and literature seems to us too much opposed to that of the Celtic to tolerate the union. Translation and direct imitation of the old moods do very well, but the poetry which tries to clothe the Celtic spirit in garments fitted by centuries of use to the needs of English literature is a failure, though often, no doubt, a brilliant failure. Such verse reminds one of the unhappy Irish Kings described in Froissart. These children of Nature were put in the charge of an English knight, in order that he might teach them civil usages. His way of

doing this was to force them to wear breeches and to give up

their long cloaks and bare legs. The experiment, as the knight confessed, was not a success. When we see a poem infused with the Celtic spirit, but expressed in forms that have been bent and shaped to the needs of English letters, we cannot help thinking of Froissart's Irish Kings. Celtic poetry seems to us at its best when it is nearest the wild, mysterious chants of the ancient Irish and Welsh. Let us illustrate what we mean by quoting from Mrs. Sharpe's collection the ancient poem, " Credhe's Lament " :- " The haven roars, and 0 the haven roars, over the rushing race of Rinn-clii-bharc ! the drowning of the warrior of loch chi chonn, that is what the wave impinging on the strand laments. Melodious is the crane, and 0 melodious is the crane, in the marshlands of Druim-da-thren ! 'tie she that may not save her brood alive : the wild dog of two colours is intent upon her nestlings. A woeful note, and 0 a woeful note is that which the thrush in Drumqueen emits ! but not more cheerful is the wail that the blackbird makes in Letterlee. A woeful sound, and 0 a woeful sound, is that the deer utters in Drumdaleish ! dead lies the doe of Druim Silenn : the mighty stag bells after her. Sore suffering to me, and 0 suffering sore, is the hero's death— his death, that used to lie with me T Sore suffering to mo is Cael, and 0 Cael is a suffering sore, that by my side he is in dead man's form! That the wave should have swept over his white body—that is what hath distracted me, so great was his delightfulness. A dismal roar, and 0 a dismal roar, is that the shore-surf makes upon the strand ! seeing that the same bath drowned the comely noble man, to me it is an affliction that Cael ever sought to encounter it. A woeful booming, and 0 a boom of woe, is that which the wave makes upon the northward beach ! beating as it does against the polished rock, lamenting for Cael, now that he is gone. A woeful fight, and 0 a fight of woe, is that the wave wages against the southern shore! As for me my span is determined! A woeful melody, and 0 melody of woe, is that which the heavy surge of Tullachleish emits! As for me : the calamity that is fallen upon me having shattered me, for me prosperity exists no more. Since now Criwthann's eon is drowned, one that I may love after him there is not in being. Many a chief is fallen by his hand, and in the battle his shield never uttered outcry !"

Here are " the authentic airs " of Celtic poetry, and very touching and beautiful they are. The verse of the modern Celtic revival is best when it comes nearest to this. When it is merely infusing a new element into English poetry the effect is far lees happy. To illustrate our meaning we will quote first, and as an example of the imitation of the old manner, an exceedingly beautiful poem by Miss Fiona Macleod, called

'' The Prayer of Women" i-

" 0 spirit, that broods upon the bills

And moves upon the face of the deep,

And is heard in the wind, Save us from the desire of men's eyes,

And the cruel lust of them, And the springing of the cruel seed In that narrow house which is as the grave For darkness and loneliness . . .

That women carry with them with shame, and weariness, and

long pain, Only for the laughter of man's heart, And the joy that triumphs therein, And the sport that is in his heart, Wherewith he mocketh us, Wherewith he playeth with us,

Wherewith he trampleth upon Us . .

Us, who conceive and bear him ; Us, who bring him forth ; Who feed him in the womb, and at the breast, and at the knee Whom be calleth mother and wife, And mother again of his children and his children's children. Ab, hour of the hours,

When he looks at our hair and sees it is grey;

And at our eyes and sees they are dim ; And at our lips straightened out with long pain ; And at our breasts, fallen and seared as a barren hill ; And at our hands, worn with toil!

Ah, hour of the hours,

When, seeing, he seeth all the bitter ruin and wreck of us— All save the violated womb that curses him— All save the heart that forebeareth . . . for pity— All save the living brain that condemneth him—

All save the spirit that shall not mate with him, All save the soul he shall never see Till he be one with it, and equal ; He who hath the bridle, but guideth not ; He who hath the whip, yet is driven ; He who as a shepherd calleth upon us, But is himself a lost sheep, crying among the hills 0 Spirit, and the Nine Angels who watch us, And Thy Son, and Mary Virgin, Heal us of the wrong of man : We, whose breasts are weary with milk, Cry, cry to Thee, 0 Compassionate !"

The poem is too fiercely pessimistic, too full of the curse of Eve, too much of a tragedy in which the passions of fear and pity are roused but to find no solution; but that it has in it the true gold we cannot doubt. The passion and the natural magic of Celtic song are both there to the full. Now see the result when the same writer tries her hand at Anglo-Celtic verse,—at the mixture of the two literatures, at English poetry infused with the Celtic spirit :— " THE SOIcROW OF DELIWIT.

Till death be filled wiih darkness And life be filled with light, The sorrow of ancient sorrows Shall be the Sorrow of Night : But then the sorrow of sorrows Shall be the Sorrow of Delight.

Heart's-joy must fade with sorrow,

For both are sprung from clay : But the Joy that is one with Sorrow,

Treads an immortal way : Each hath in fee To morrow, And their soul is Yesterday.

Joy that is clothed with shadow Is the Joy that is not dead:

For the joy that is clothed with the rainbow Shall with the bow be sped :

Where the Sun spends his fires is she, And where the stars are led."

That is a pretty enough little poem, but it falls between the two stools. It is either too Celtic in tone or not English enough.

The length to which our quotations have run leave us little or no space in which to deal with the main portion of Mrs. Sharpe's book. We must not omit, however, to say that it contains a great deal of very delightful reading, and that it will introduce its readers to many beautiful pieces of verse

before unknown to them. It is always difficult to criticise anthologies on the ground of omissions, because the editor can always plead, and plead truly, that he could not find room for every one's favourite poems in a single volume. Still, we think in spite of this defence that the present work does not do justice to Mangan,—by far the greatest of modern Irish poets. His " Dark Rosaleen " is of course included, but the two other poems given from him do not convey a true impression of his powers. But if Mangan is neglected, Dr. Hyde is done ample ample justice to, and this is a

source of congratulation. Many of his lyrics contain an enchanting mixture of playfulness, melancholy, and good humour. " Nelly of the Top•Knots" is as delightful a song as any in the whole wide range of Irish literature. But though we must be thankful for this and the four other poems by Dr. Hyde, why were we not allowed the haunting verses which begin- " She casts a spell, oh, casts a spell, Which haunts me more than I can tell,"

—a poem which Mr Stead has most wisely included in the volume of his " Penny Poets " which deals with Irish Ballads and Songs. Dr. Hyde's verse, it should be noted, supports

our contention that Celtic poetry is best pure and unmixed. There is not a touch of the English spirit in his fascinating

songs. Mr. Yeats again affords proof of what we have said above. When he is entirely Celtic in tone, as in "The Lake of Innisbree" he is at his best. When he is half-English, half- Celtic he is apt to be jejune and conventional, in spite of the

.igh accomplishment of his art.