MINOR POETS AND VERSEMAKERS.* POETRY, the highest and most difficult

of the arts, is in one respect the easiest. To model in clay or work in marble, to paint, with even a faint appearance of skill, upon canvas, or to compose music, needs preliminary training and technical know- ledge. To write verses, on the other hand, if we may judge from the many volumes that every year appear with the spring blossoms, needs neither knowledge nor training. Pen, ink, and

• Ma, with sther Poems, chiefly Lyrical. By Bennett Rodd. London, Stott. 1886.—Chimes from a Poet's Belfry. London Elliot Stock. 1886.—Poems. By the Hon. Pauline E. Cranstoon. For the Benefit of Adopted Orphan Children. Second Edition. London : Bickers and Son. 1886.—Memories and Thoughts. By the Countess of Cork. London : Bell and Sons. 1886.—In Primrose Time a New Irish Garland. By Sarah M. B. Piatt. London : Regan Paul, Trench, and Co.—Vagrant Verses. By Rosa Mulholland. London Regan Pant, Trench. and Co. 1886.—Selections from Ow Poetical Works of Mortimer Collins. Made by F. Percy Cotton. London : Bentley and Son. 188ti,

paper are required, and some nimbleness of intellect will be found of service ; but that it is possible to dispense with this advantage, scores of so-called " Poems " are printed witnesses to prove. It is really painful to think of the wasted guineas expended on publication by many of these rhyming sparrows, who mistake their weak chirpings for song. Of course, in a business sense, these volumes are a dead loss ; and it may be doubted whether they yield aught but vexation to any one con- cerned in their production, save the printer and paper-maker. At the same time, it is the lot of a critic in these days of cul- ture to meet with many volumes of verse which, had they been written in the last century, would have ensured their authors a considerable name in literature. So much artistic skill is to be found in these works, so much sensibility, so much of what appears to be poetic fancy, or even imagination, that the reader, while doubtful of their right to be called poetry, finds it difficult to place them. To call men who can write so well mere versifiers, seems unjust ; to call them poets, is to make that common which is, in reality, one of the rarest of gifts. However, it is impossible to deny that a number of men and women in our time do write verses that are admirable alike for feeling and expression, for sentiment if not for creative power. And if we call these writers "minor poets," we are, perhaps, doing no injustice to them nor to the art they practise. And this title lessens the difficulty of the critic, who is often in sore straits to decide whether there is genuine poetry in a volume, or whether it is the production of an accomplished verseman. Of this only is he assured, that the versifier, however brilliant, will never reach those realms of gold in which Keats loved to travel ; and that the small poet, though his voice be at present faint and his pace halting, may have within him the power of rising to a higher level,—that if he is at the foot of the ladder to-day, it is impossible to say be will not ascend many rungs of it to-morrow.

Mr. Rodd, who, when a scholar at Balliol, won the Newdigate, has already proved his claim to a fair position among the minor poets of the day, as distinguished from the verse-writers. He has the gift of musical utterance, and he has also the elevation of tone that gives dignity to art. His sentiment is true, his love of Nature is genuine, and no one who reads the long story, which would be more impressive if it were shorter, that gives a title to his volume, can doubt that his pathos is genuine also.

More than this in favour of Feda, or of the poems that follow it, we cannot justly say. A piece founded on the old legend of the Wandering Jew is the fruit of poetical culture rather than of inspiration, and if among the lyrics there are lines or stanzas to admire, we have not met with one which for beauty of expression or of thought is likely to live long in the memory. The tone of his verse is always good ; and from this point of view praise may be given to some stanzas on the cruelty of keeping skylarks in cages, a fault due in many cases to an utter want of imagination.

"The Nature-Child" reminds us of Wordsworth, and the fact that there is a resemblance, however faint, to the Lucy to whom Nature undertook to be both law and impulse, is against our appreciation of the poem. Another lyric, "I Knew a Poet," is characteristic of the thoughtful strain of Mr. Rodd's verse. After describing a poet whose name is Joy, another whose name is Faith, and a third," gentle as a woman" whose name is Pity, the writer continues :—

" Bat these with their loveless tissue of fair weaving, These with the joyless musical refrain, These letting life go blind, and unbelieving, These looking earthward only and in vain ;

These that have lain in the poppy-flowers waving, Grown where the fields turn wilderness and bare ; These with the look-back and the lotus craving, These with the thin self-echo of despair; These ever straining after days that were not,

These with their reckless abandonment of youth, These that restrain not, wonder not, revere not,—

These are no poets, or I know no Truth."

Mr. Rodd is in general full of hope and trust, as a poet should be, for how else can he say what is "worthy the reading ;" and when the mystery of life troubles him, then he writes manfully, witness the following lines addressed to a friend :—

"Courage, courage, hut thou seen

Faith and doubt are near akin !

Were the future clear as day None brA fools could go astray, None but fools could choose the gloom, March in blindness into doom ; Little merit were it then To be worthy to be men ! Surely, though for days to come Wail of prophecy be dumb, Yet prophetic are those years In the writing of their tears; Something clearer now we know Dark to wisdom long ago; Beauty lives and truth survives, Harvested from fleeting lives ; More and more new day by day, Olden sorrows wane away, Nothing sinks from good to worse In the Ordered Universe.

Thal-dors this is stern and true : Well thou knowest what to do, Labour on and be thy fear Not to read thy duty clear. Wouldet thou rest upon the way, Waste ih sleep thy little day, Murmur that the road is rough ? Time for sleep is long enough, Up and do thy little best, Soon thou caust not choose but rest !

. ...... .

Friend, how many storms together You and I have yet to weather !— We who once in clouded youth Tried to find the Scar of Truth— Arm by arm and knee by knee, In the foremost of the free, Till the fight of years be done, And the Quiet Rest is won,— Till the new dawn gather fast, Moonless night be overpast, And the light break through at last."

We have quoted these lines not so much for poetical merit as for the healthy spirit pervading them,—a spirit very unlike that which animates the pessimistic poetasters of the day in their confessions of hopelessness and unbelief.

The author of Chimes from a Poet's Belfry is not one of them. He writes hopefully, and with a sympathy for what is bmutiful and true that almost disarms the critic, who is re- quested "to tread lightly on the poet's consecrated ground." Unfortunately, an aptitude for rhyming is more noticeable in his verses than a genius fur poetry. If good intentions could supply the place of art, this volume would be a success. Many of the poems, however, are better fitted to amuse indulgent relatives than to please the public. The author hoped for per- mission to dedicate his book to the late Prince Leopold, and it is now inscribed to his memory. After this manner the verses begin :—

" It is most natural to my taste, and just, That I should dedicate my Muse to one

Whose thoughtful brow was lit with the calm light Of 'Hesperus.'"

The author's taste is not to be disputed ; his Muse has, we venture to say, but small claim to the title.

And we fear that we must say the same of Miss Cranstonn's poems, although to many readers, perhaps,their sincere Christian tone will prove more acceptable than verse of a higher order. There are virtues higher than poetic merit, and these give to Miss Cranstoun's volume a consistency of purpose which, together with the charitable object for which the book is pub- lished, may make it acceptable in many families. A critic, however, has less to do with purpose than performance, and in this writer's case we have to repeat what we have often said before, that pious verses are not necessarily poetry.

Are we wrong in thinking that if the Countess of Cork had written her Memories and Thoughts in prose they would have excited a deeper interest? With her, verse, as an instrument of expression, acts more like a clog than a stimulus. In some of the character-sketches there are lines that hit off prominent features ; but her recollections of men and women like Lady Palmerston, Abraham Hayward, Sir Alexander Cockburn, Lord Houghton, and other celebrities are, for the most part, too brief to be lifelike. The following lines on Mr. Delane are the best :—

"110w are things altered bince the day When he in drawiug-rooms held sway, A sway, perhaps, unique in kind, Though swiftly faded out of mind ! None held, or, rather none protest, To hold him higher than the rest, Yet on each topic of the day,

All wondered what Helene would say ?' And statesmen to his views deferred, And Ministers with him conferred. Secrets of Cabinet, 'twas said, His ear oft heard, his eye oft read ; Despatches grave to him unrolled, Would their perplexed contents unfold, And questions intricate as deep Were known within his breast to sleep. Flattered, made much of, and carest, In every home a welcome guest, With cautions speech and manners staid, He flattered none, but none betrayed. While many preached this doctrine small, March with the Times, or you must fall,' He like no other in the land, Made the Times march, with wave of hand!"

Among the "Occasional Verses" is a "Supposed Epitaph on the Right Hon. Robert Lowe," printed some years ago in the newspapers. It has the acrid flavour which belonged to party warfare in the early years of the century, rather than to the softer, if not more truthful, method of attack in vogue in our day, and is evidently appreciated by the Countess, who has taken the trouble to produce a French translation. There is grace and freedom of versification in some of the more serious poems, and in these the sentiment will impress the reader favourably.

If we cannot justly say that Mrs. Fiat's tiny volume, Primrose Time, about half of which consists of blank paper, contains "infinite riches in a little room," we can say that her thirty-three pages of poetical letterpress will give pleasure to every reader. She is a poet with a distinct utterance and a clear vision,—a minor poet, it may be, but one who looks at N ature and life without using the "spectacles of books." Her pathos is genuine, her vein of humour pleasant, and when she writes of children, or of our " fellow-mortals " the birds, her notes are musical and tender. Here are some stanzas, called "The Awakening of the Birds," written at Monkstown Castle, County Cork, which will bear to be severed from the context :—

" But, children, though this ruin might Not be the place to sleep, you see, At morning it's the prettiest sight In all this pretty world to me.

For when, like one that's slept too long, The sudden sun before me springs, Ivy and atone break into song, And hall and battlement take wings !

The lords of earth lie still down there,—

They have their night, who had their day ; See, in their place the bids of air Make merry with their honours grey.

From mullioned windows they peep oat, In families, or in lover-pairs ; On the high walls they walk about And chatter of their sweet affairs.

Sir Something, gone from grave-yard fame, God rest you under flower and dew ! The wind has blown away your name, But in my heart I reverence you.

Oh, you were good to build (too good For me to set your praise in words) So brave a castle by the wood, To be the happy home of birds !"

Among the Vagrant Verses, by Miss Mulholland, there are some sacred poems, marked by careful workmanship, which, if they do not rise to the highest level, are far from commonplace.

The writer, apparently, is a Roman Catholic ; but apart from some invocations of the Virgin, there are few thoughts here with which her Protestant fellow-Christians will not sympathise. The distinctly religious pieces strike us as the best, probably because they owe their existence to the author's deepest ex- perience; and, there is originality as well as sweetness in the poem, "Sister Mary of the Love of God."

A pretty ripple of song, musical to the ear, and without more sense than the brain of the average lady-singer can carry, is the characteristic of the late Mortimer Collins's poems. There are in his poetry echoes of Lord Tennyson, of Mr. Lockyer, and of Herrick, and a sensuous flavour, which, if it differs from that of the old Devonshire singer, frequently reminds us of him. It is something to meet with a lyrist who can sing ; and this Mr. Collins can do. His verses, slight in texture, have signs of culture and fancy, and he seems again and again to be on the point of at- taining high excellence. But this excellence, whether it be from want of art or inspiration, he never reaches, and he has, we believe, written no verse that is of more than ephemeral interest. His witty stanzas on the Positivists are, perhaps, the best remembered ; but a smart bit of satire is not poetry, and to this he approaches chiefly in the short, Herrick-like snatches of verse in praise, for the most part, of love and wine, or of the sounds and sights of Nature. Several of these will admit of quotation, and shall be given without comment. They will show, as no words of criticism

can, the delicate grace of the writer's lj Tics, of which some carry us back to the literature of song current two centuries ago, while others are modern in form and flavour :— "VIOLETS AT HOME.

0, happy bads of violet !

I give them to my sweet, and she Pats them where something sweeter yet Must always be. White violets find whiter rest ; For fairest flowers bow fair a fate ! For me remain, 0 fragrant breast, Inviolate."

" BIRDS AND LOVERS.

A brown lark, loving eloudland best, And sun-smit seas of sky, Thee does a musical unrest Drive to rise upward from thy nest Far fathoms high.

A flaid-fiuting blackbird, keep The midnight of thy wing Close to my home, where leaves grow deep, Since where two lovers lie asleep

Thou lovest to sing."

"I AND MY SWEETHEART.

I and my sweetheart spelt together, Our ages were together ten, How sad to waste the sweet spring weather In the old Dame's fussy den !

White lilac, fragrant, graceful, cool, Tapped at the window of the school :

Alas ! too well our doom we knew— There was a tremulous birch-tree, too.

I and my sweetheart dwell together : Many tens are our ages now ; Vanished is youth's gay violet weather,

Stays the old Dame's frowning brow. Dame Nature keeps the eternal school, And grows keen twigs to flog the fool ; But looks away with pardoning eye, When we play truant, my love and I."

"ON WINDERMERE.

Droop, droop, soft little eyelids !

Droop over eyes of weird, wild blue ! Under the fringe of those tremulous shy lids, Glances of love and of fan peep through.

Sing, sing, sweetest of maidens!

Carol away with thy white litee throat ! Echo awakes to the exquisite cadence, Here on the magical mere afloat.

Dream, dream, heart of my own love !

Sweet is the wind from the odorous South— Sweet is the island we sail to alone, love— Sweet is a kiss from thy itiddy young month."

"MAY.

May, like a girl at a garden gate, With slender fingers lily-bells grasp,

With eyes of bevel that wonder and wait, And a hand that longs to lift the hasp,

Is sighing, 'Ah! when will summer begin, When shall I open and let love in ?'

Mistress mine, are you like May, The maiden month in her tender green, Looking wistfully up the way, Whence music is heard, whence summer is seen ?

Will you lift the latch as my foot draws nigh To your gate of love ? for I mean to try."

Mortimer Collins died when he had just completed his forty- ninth year, and the editor of the selections from his poems observes that his poetry improved with age, and that the greater part of the pieces in this volume were written after he was forty. The influence of his marriage, a very happy one, is perceptible in his art, and had he lived, be might have produced work less impulsive and more perfect. The volume is dedicated to his widow, and now the obituary informs us that she, too, has passed away.