BOOKS.

RECENT VERSE.*

Ix is rarely that the reviewer in the course of his periodical explorations of modern verse finds so many books of high

quality appearing in one season. The first half-dozen on our list are all the work of poets, and some of them poets of high ambition and high achievement. We take Mr. Trench first because, while his quality is indisputable, he is the most puzzling, provocative, and difficult to estimate of the six.

-Hitherto we have known him as a poet with a gift for imagery and haunting irregular cadences, the qualities, in short, of the new Celtic school with whom he seemed to have affinities.

In his new volume we find little of the old. Most of his music has gone, his rhythm is often harsh and crabbed, he dabbles in strange conceits, and he is frequently purposely and needlessly obscure. He still has the sovran gift of imagination, for scarcely one of his pieces lacks a sudden turn of imagery which causes that thrill which is the infallible test of poetry. But as a whole the work is cast in a rougher mould than we had looked for, and, as we have said, there is not the same melody in the cadences. Mr. Trench has got rid finally of all the conventional jargon of poetry ; but with it he has lost some of the music, and he has not yet found a music of his own. This applies not only to the lyrics, but also to such poems as the "Stanzas to Tolstoy," which in form are unpleasing, though full of fine conceptions. One result of it all is that he can now write an admirable ballad. "Jean Richepin's Song" and the "Old Anchor Charity" have the direct forthright effect of the best folk-poetry. He can also tell an excellent tale in verse, as in " Multatuli Re- moulded." In a certain kind of lyric he is successful, for the "Ode to Beauty" has a subtle harmony of its own which grows with re-reading. The truth seems to be that Mr. Trench is at the parting of the ways. He has abandoned all the easy paths of minor poetry which so many are content to follow. How great is his talent for what we may call the classical convention of verse can be seen from such a lovely stanza as this :—

" Or I, a shepherd, am in Thessaly ; And the twilight village cries 'Rath he not come On the last scented load of myrtle home?' He site in the great valley wide and still Blocked by the snow-capt mountain, and his sheep, Tawny and dark, roam far and crop their fill Along the pastures, by the river deep. His wandering fingers teach the stops at will Melodies cool as water, soft as sleep."

His aim is to put into his work a weight of thought which the old conventions could not bear, and so he must needs find new ones. Take, for instance, the longest and most important poem in the book, "Apollo and the Seaman." It begins in the old gallant style :—

" Apollo through the woods came down Furred like a merchant fine, And sate with a Sailor at an Inn Sharing a jug of wine."

Then, after some charming descriptions of Nature, which Mr. Trench does easily in the old manner, we are led suddenly into the deeps of metaphysics and a lengthy disoussion of human immortality. It is a fine performance, and the close is the best thing, in our view, that Mr. Trench has written ; but it is strange land, and he is not yet sure of his feet. There

• (1) Nese Poems. By Herbert Trench. London : Methuen and Co. [Gal— (2) Poems Old and Neu. By Margaret L. Woods. London : Macmillan and Co. Pls. 6d. net]— (3) The Pilgrim 'Tester. By Arthur E. J. Legge. London John Lane. [4e. 6d. net.]--(4) Forty Singing Seamen, and other Poems. By Alfred Noyes. London : W. Blackwood and Sons. [53. net.1—(5) The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter. With an Introduction by George Meredith. London: Hodder and Stoughton. [63. net.)—(6) A Garden of Shadows. By Ethel Tindal Atkinson. London : Macmillan and Co. [3s. 6d. net.] —(7) Harps Thew up in Babylon. By Arthur Colton. New York : H. Holt and Co. [5e. net.-

(8) Spring in London. By E. A. London : Smith, Elder, and Co. [28. net.]—

(9) The Wayfarers. By Arthur K. Sabin. Cranleigh : Samurai Press. [21. net.] —(10) The Shadow Show. By A. St. John Adcock. London: Elkin Mathews. [Is. 6d. net.]—(11) Poems. By Giosue Carducei. Translated by Hand Holland. Loudon: T. Fisher Unwin. [5s. net.) —(12) The Tams: an Irish Epic. Told in English Verse by Mary A. Hutton. Dublin : Naunsel and Co. [las. 6d, net.]

are still traces of the schools about the singer, little bits of pedantry, awkward parleyings with jargon. In a word, prose is not wholly transfused into poetry. Mr. Trench's book is the most considerable, and by fax the most interesting, achievement in verse which the present writer has met with for some years. He has something of Mr. Meredith's power of preaching philosophy in glowing images. If he can succeed in uniting the simplicity and glow of his other work with his ' new burden of doctrine, he may stand high in English letters.

Mrs. Woods's Poems Old and New contains many poems which we have seen and admired elsewhere. Her reputation as a novelist seems to us to have unjustly overshadowed her remarkable merit as a poet. She has that indefinable thing magic, which is only another name for genius. The poems in this book fall into two classes,—simple lyrics and ballads of

the joy of the earth, and certain stately odes in an irregular but musical verse. The words of her "Lute Player" might be her own :—

" Hast thou a joy ? Though but a flower, 0 maiden, bring it.

Though but a dream of morning hour, Yet will I sing it."

The "Ballad of the Sea-born Man," who is caught and drowned in the woods, haunts the memory, as does the noble saga of "King Hjiirward's Death." "The Child Alone" is in grace and humour not unworthy to be ranked with Stevenson's Child's Garden. Mrs. Woods has so original a talent that it is no dispraise to say that again and again she awakens echoes in our mind,—the echoes of old good poetry which are part of the world's common stock of thought. Where

all is good it is hard to select, but we would single out as our special favourites "Genius Loci," " Quem tu, Melpomene," "March Thoughts from England," and the wonderful dialogue, "The May Morning and the Old Man," in which age and spring are brought together in poignant contrast. Of the first two poems, which are written in a mood of grave meditation, we can only say that they are worthy of their themes. One passage from "The Builder," too long to quote in full, tells how

Westminster Abbey once looked down on green gardens and a silver river, but now

"So large it stands, the whole earth under Spreads boundless and the illimitable sea. It beholds the Himalayas and the peopled plains The five rivers water, alien fields

Of other verdure, old strange-coloured towns Of the ancient East It looks on the grim edge of Arctic night And gold-hunters frozen upon their prey, Looks upon ice-bound ships, On billowing plains of wheat and tropic hills, Hung with great globes of oranges and haunted All the night long by little wandering moons ; On immortal snow and everlasting summer."

Mr. Arthur Legge is that rare thing among modern writers, a satirist who is also a poet. His Pilgrim Jester has passages

which are not unworthy of the author of Don Juan. Great skill in versification, a keen sense of the ironies of life, and something of prophetic wrath are joined with a dent:p.(7 of imagination and a capacity for sustained melodious flights which make his little book worthy of note by all lovers of good literature. His creed is a kind of full-blooded Stoicism, not untinged with sentiment, and his Jester, who reviews all the works of mankind, is always hesitating between a laugh and a sob. The episodes are interspersed with songs, of which

the "Song of Adventurers" and the "Song of Faith" are the• finest. In the Don Juan manner the Seventh lest is well-nigh

perfect, and there is also a passage on p. 117 of remarkable merit. It is a book from which it is impossible to quote, for, like all good art, its virtue is not in purple patches, but in the whole conception. Mr. Legge has an intellectual equipment not inferior to Mr. Trench or Mrs. Woods ; and if he does not walk so much in purple and fine raiment, he is no less of the true singer.

With Mr. Noyes we come into a different world. His interest is purely objective, and when he tries to be profound he fails. The early pieces in the book in which he preaches an easy gospel of sentiment are often little better than rhymed homilies in the daily Press. But he is a balladist of a high order, and in these days when cacophony is popular his infallible ear for sweet sounds is a thing to be

grateful for. He is not good on the high notes, but on the

middle path of plain human loves and pleasures he is not easily beaten. The ballad "Forty Singing Seamen" has com- pletely captivated the mind of the present writer to the exclu- sion of urgent matters, and some of the "Slumber-Songs of the Madonna" are exquisite and delightful. There will always be an audience for a poet who can sing of Drake as Mr. Noyes has sung, and tell of the 'Golden Hynde's ' return "With rubies a-wash in her scuppers and her bilge ablaze with

gold."

We take one stanza from " The Haunted Palace" to show Mr. Noyes's quality at his best :— " Come to the haunted palace of my dreams,

My crumbling palace by the eternal sea,

Which, like a childless mother, still must croon Her ancient sorrows to the cold white moon, Or, ebbing tremulously, With one pale arm, where the long foam-fringe gleams, Will gather her rustling garments, for a space Of muffled weeping, round her dim white face."

The next two volumes on our list are by -women, one by a poet of established repute, and the other by a writer with whose name we are unfamiliar. It is no small triumph to have a book of collected poems introduced to the world by Mr. Meredith, and Mrs. Shorter's Poems are worthy of the honour. As Mr. Meredith says justly, she has the true ballad gift. "Her gentle sincerity holds her to the story." It is hard to choose where all is good, but if choice must be made ours shall be "The Dean of Santiago," "The Beggar Maid," "The White Witch," "The Little Black Hound," and "The Man who Trod on Sleeping Grass." She has much of the mingled simplicity and mystery of the old ballads. Of the other verse we like best " Cean Duv Deelish," the beautiful little poem on "Ireland," "The Suicide's Grave," and the final poem, "The Enemies." Limited both in range of thought and expression, her poetry wins the reader by a certain sincerity, freshness, and simplicity. Miss Tindal Atkinson's Garden of Shadows is more sophisticated in thought, of less accomplished workmanship, but with moments of vision. "The Pilgrim" is the best of the poems, and in a simpler vein we like "Spring," "To Love in August," and some of the sonnets. She has much to learn, but there is the stuff of promise in her work.

The remaining volumes must be dismissed more briefly. Mr. Arthur Colton's Harps Hung up in Babylon is mainly a set of exercises in the Stevenson tradition. "The House" might have been included in Underwoods without incongruity. He has grace, scholarship—his adaptations of Horace are excel- lent—and unfailing optimism. Here is a stalwart creed for everyday use :-

•

"A draught of water from the spring,

An apple from the wayside tree, • A bite of bread for strengthening, A pipe for grace and policy ; And so, by taking time, to find A world that's mainly to one's mind ; Some health, some wit in friends a few, Some high behaviour in their kind, Some disposition to be true."

'LE. L's" version of the De Berum Natura in Popian couplets called Spring in London is a little puzzling to follow. It should have had an " Argument " prefixed to it in the eighteenth.century manner. It has some good lines, but it is often flat and trite. Mr. Sabin's version of the tale of the lotus-eaters in his Wayfarers is not so good as other work of his vie have seen. The long lines have a monotonous cadence, and while the workmanship is skilful, it lacks inspiration. Mr. St. John Adcock's little volume of exercises in the manner of Praed called The Shadow Show is a good example of lighter verse. "The Military " is an excellent piece of satire. Miss Holland's translation of various pieces from Carducci's Bime Nuove and Odi Barbari is less successful than her discriminating criticism of the Italian poet in her preface. She is too literal, and her verses but poorly reproduce the music of the original. Last, we have another translation, an Irish epic calledThe Tecin, which Miss Mary Hutton has rendered in blank verse to the extent of nearly five hundred pages. We have a great respect for any modern writer who has the courage to translate a long epic, and it is right that famous Gaelic poems should be made accessible to the English reader. So far as we can judge, the work is well done, though we should think that the interest of The Tain is rather archaeological than literary.