A NOTABLE POET
IN his new poem Mr. Richard Church appears to be outgrowing his gravest fault ; which was an uneasy tension of the nerves, a constant, too superficial excitement. It often happens that poets are over-conscious of their status. They feel that in every phrase they must bear witness to the sensitive nature of a poet. It would be a happy time if the world " returned to its original simplicity " and poets wrote merely as the spirit moved them. But this is too much to demand from such ambitious hearts : we need ask no more of theni than to try to keep clarity and truthfulness in their moods. The worst of poets insist most upon their own sensitiveness. Every fanciful young lady hears the harebells ring ; every impressionable youth is " hurt " by the beauty of the world, Mr. Church was never anything like this ; but occasionally we had the suspicion that he struggled to pack his lines with rather feverish words. His new poem marks a great advance in soundness and ease.
For one thing, the verse itself has a continuous tone : it runs freely, with a good deal of internal variety, but without jerkiness. It is straightforward and sober, as befits a narrative. The tale is of a monk who was ashamed of the strife in himself between his love of the movements and visible small glories of life and his puritanical conscience which bade him serve God without thought of any earthly matter. When he should have been stoning the flags of the refectory in single-minded devotion, he fouird that his hand wandered into " tracing the outline of a flying heron," and be became savage with himself over his sins. The abbot, old and wise, sees that it is wrong of him to misrate his skill and deny the innocence of his enjoyment : but he sees, too, that it is worse for him to violate his conscience. He forbids him to paint or draw again, except that he should paint the portrait of the abbot that should succeed himself. The monk renounces his skill, yet not without gloom and a spiritual pride in his renunciation. The rest of the story, the outcome of that pride, shall be left for the poem itself to tell.
As we have great hopes of Mr. Church's talent, we shall make one or two criticisms of The Portrait of the Abbot. There still lingers an overstressing in his account of emotional fervours : it is better to be simple and objective than to risk appearing to exaggerate. Not unconnected with this, the language has too much Latinism in it, and Mr. Church has a preference for abstract metaphors and similes. The faults are not serious, however, by no means destroying the beauty of the poem. The following passage will give an example of the tenor of the verse at the best :—
"So peace came to the monk : the harsh division And inward treachery were covered up.. No more could heron's flight before his eyes, Light them with sudden ecstasy, that threw
His soul into a tumult,-and disturbed
The pool of contemplation there, which held The image of a heaven far above.
No ample-bosomed tree asleep at noon, Within the drowsy meadows, where the light Hangs gnatlike, shuddering at Whiles : No trooping cattle, with slow, dreary pace, Following home, their westward-gleaming flanks Rolling like laden ships upon the sea ; No heights, with snowy isolation capped, Standing unmoved above the winter sun, Until, his ardour failing, they return An icy gleam, a rose of recognition ; No pebble, by a sudden vein of quartz, Inspired with lightning-shaped and jagged beauty ; None of these clayey splendours moved him now. Habit, with careful method, year by year Settled the dust of routine on his heart,
And hid the fingerprints of clutching joy, • Who used to hold him, killing breath with bliss."
The Portrait of the Abbot is the first of a series of shilling books of new poetry projected by Messrs. Berm. They arc to be published in pamphlet-form, beautifully printed and designed. Mr. Church's poems give the series a most auspicious start.
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