The Reward of Industry

Collected Poems. By John Freeman. (Macmillan. 8s. 6d.)

UNCONSIDERED praise is the most common fault of modern criticism. We are a smooth-tongued generation, anxious not to offend for fear of future complications. It is a pity. A little savaging, like a cold bath, braces up the muscles, and makes the sufferer healthily irate or humbled. Anger and humility ; a nice mixture of these two qualities is a good agent for throwing the poisons of conceit and blatancy out of our system. So now, to turn to Mr. Freeman's work, we may vent our irritation while assuring him that we have paid our tribute to his seriousness and his earnest sincerity.

At his best, he strikes the note which the self-protective personality often reaches. He finds, in the unceasing survey of childhood, a certain pathos of intimacy with the quiet and immobile things of nature, things that reassure him by their gentleness, their grace. This orphan-like quality sets the tone of his work, rounding his music into a complainant form that reminds us of the robin in September. He turns his words over and over again, like a wistful boy counting the treasures he has gathered from the sea-beach. The result does not always make for vigour in rhythmic construction ; and his repetitions, as the following example shows, are apt to be Meaningless except to his own ear. He is too private—and that is very different from being individualistic :- " I left you sick to death, and I like death.

It was a broken body bore me away—

A broken mind—poisoned by my own breath, And love self-poisoned. . , , Was it but yesterday ? Forgive, forgive, forgive, forgive, forgive, forgive ; "

If, however, one has the patience to continue in his company, one is rewarded often by touches of intimacy lit up by flashes of real poetry. If he is humorless, one must remember that Wordsworth was the same, and that after all the poet does not write that those who run may read. Mr. Freeman can delight us with his pictures. He will paint the bright and dewy morning, to surprise us with the following subscription :-

" But even as I stepped out the brightness dimmed, I saw the fading edge of all delight.

The sober morning waked the drowsy herds, And there was the old scolding of the birds."

The fruits of Sir William Watson's industry are very different. Here is a technique that is consummate in its grace, suavity, and power. Sir William is traditional, and proud of it. In fact, he is inclined to trail his coat whenever he sees anyone who indulges in poetic experiments. Since he is such a remarkable craftsman himself, one is surprised that he is not more lenient to the genuine prosodic artist. Apart from this little bee in his bonnet, however (and one can under- stand and sympathize, knowing how many frauds dabble in verse), Sir William is a penetrating critic. I think his " Wordsworth's Grave " not only one of the noblest pastorals written since Gray's " Elegy," 'but also an inspired guide into the mind of the grand old poet. Here are two stanzas

" Not Milton's keen, translunar music thine ; Not Shakespeare's cloudless, boundless human view ; Not Shelley's flush of rose on peaks divine ; Nor yet the wizard twilight Coleridge knew.

What hadst thou that could make so large amends For all thou hadat not and thy peers possessed, Motion and fire, swift means to radiant ends ?- Thou hadat, for weary feet, the gift of rest."

Why Sir William should be led to subjects of a politico- heroic strain is a matter for him to explain. He has a naive belief in the efficacy of the occasional ode, written to com- memorate such events as coronations and victories. When he is more personally moved, however, he has a quality which gives sheer delight, a joy such as one feels in the hills, where hidden waters are tumbling, and evening is overtaking one in solitude. He is a true magician in words, and after all, that is what the poet should be. In this volume the reader will find many such lyrics as that little gem " April " which shines in the Oxford Book. Here is one of them :- " LEAVETABING.

Pass, thou wild light, Wild light on peaks that so Grieve to let go The day.

Lovely thy tarrying, lovely too is night Pass thou away.

Pass, thou wild heart, Wild heart of youth that still Rest half a will To stay.

I grow too old a comrade, let us part. Pass thou away.

RICTIARD Cauncri.