Consolations

kr is among the privileges of poetry to enshrine permanently the beauty and romance of former days. Every age has, of course, its own beauty, or, at any rate, its own romance. But many people are born out of their time ; they prefer true rules to new inventions " ; and, happily, there is for such people the consolation of poetry. There is, indeed, more than mere consolation ; for to the true poet, as to the sensitive reader, imagination is itself the central reality. The mind is the only abiding citadel of man, and it follows, therefore, that only those things which naturally haunt the mind of an individual have real vitality for him.

Mr. Blunden and Mr. Maclaren, different as they are in many ways, have this much in common : they both subdue time to imagination, and make of the past a living present. Mr. Blunden subdues place as well. His new book contains a number of poems on Japanese subjects, written during his three years' lectureship at the Tokyo Imperial University. These poems are reprinted from a small, limited edition published in 1927, and Mr. Bhuiden tells us that some of his critics commented upon their English tone and accused him of being " an incorrigible Briton." Superficially—but only superficially—those critics were justified. They were fundamentally wrong, however, in expecting a poet to be a tourist. The poet, by the very necessity that makes him a poet, carries. his own universe within himself, and on reaching a foreign land he will naturally look for points of unity with his own inner world rather than for mere external diversities. In Ornamentations," Mr Blunden relegates such external. ities to their rightful phuje. They imprison his spirit for

awhile, but only :—

till

Thought spies one rose or daffodil."

Strange temples and strange birds may give the Japanese landscape a momentarily unfamiliar appearance ; but life, after all, is everywhere essentially the same. Thus, Mr. Blunden begins " The Visitor " :— " Suddenly the other aide of this world wide, Whose proud extent even conquering Steam allowed, Grew near as the' garden-gate ; no mountain then, No rosy-torturing desert, no dead lake,

Nor jungle, whirlpool, jealous frontier stopped us, We moved within the wings of some ten words Into a most familiar country air,

And like spring showers received it from the hills That stood from our own hills ten thousand miles— Or none ; we paused along the, yellow plains, And kissed the child that ran from shyer friends To take our hand ; and we could tell what passed

In unknown la e between old pouchy boatmen Among the huge b bushes where for ever Dwells the uncaptured serpent six yards long, Whom the' mall fish warping the waters' brim Decline to notice."

Apart from its " Japanese Garland," Mr: Blunden's volume contains some two dozen poems under the general title of " Moods, Conjectures, and Fancies." Some of his meta- physical exercises, such as " Values," are subtle in thought but laboured in expression. For ourselves, we prefer Mr. Blunden in his simpler moods, such as this sextet to " Sir William Treloar's Dinner for Crippled Children " "Here walks the shade of Whittington in bliss ; 0 greatness and good-nature, still you thrive ! I thank my God, Charles Lamb is still alive In these new Londoners ; they shall not miss The crown of life ; here's Coram, Dickens, Hood, Christmas and Christ profoundly understood.

But, best of all, we like Mr. Blunden in his characteristic role of quiet country observer and chronicler. Such poems as " The Kiln," " Epitaph," and that charming portrait of an old-time village schoolmaster, entitled " The Geographer's Glory, or, The Globe in 1730," show that he well sustains his- supremacy in that capacity.

While Mr. Blunden wears the mantle of John Clare, the spirit of the sea-balladists has descended upon Mr. Maclaren. For sheer verve and jollity his Sailor With Banjo is surely unsurpassed in modern poetry. He introduces us to the seafaring company in a quayside tavern in " the great days of sail," and his songs and chanties catch the old-world tang, but with a spontaneity and emphasis all his own. Here, for example, Tom the Rambler takes up his instrument :

" Turn-ti tiddle, tum-ti tiddle, plink-aplonk, piing ! Tom the Rambler's off again, for time's on the wing,

And Paddy Murphy's dancing with the landlord's daughter—

Come and drown your sorrows in the tavern by the water.

Toorelaye, toorelaye, or stay away and sneer !

Life's a little toddle 'twist a cot and a bier, And that's the truth of anything and who are I or you But two little bantams crying cock-a-doodle doo ! "

Well, who could " stay away and sneer " ? The music is irresistible, and Mr. Maclaren, with equal success, rings many changes of mood and melody from his banjo. But not all of his fifty items are given up to gay irresponsibility ; there are, especially among the songs of a pedlar who visits the tavern, some poems of grave beauty and exquisite tenderness. Here are the two middle stanzas of " Wayfarer's Thorn " :- " 0 never a tree but fairly grows !

Slight birch, the lady of the woods, And oak, and ash, and sweet wild rose, And cypress in starlit solitudes : Laburnum and lilac, cherry, larch, Red rowans in the hills of home, Slim sallow wands that flower in March, And ilex by the salt sea foam.

Aye, elm and apple, and beechen dales,

Dim silvery firs by silent seas—

But still shall rove Time's nightingales Thro' hawthorn-trees and blackthorn-trees ; And holier yet, in music's wake, As holly's lamps when autumn ends, Sweet hawthorn blooms for sorrow's sake And blackthorn boughs are pilgrim's friends."

A first reading of these poems is pure, unconsidered enjoyment. A second reading is needed to discover the wealth of thought and emotion and the fine craftsmanship which Mr. Maelaren hides beneath his easy and, apparently, effortless manner. His book is unique and wholly delightful.