EASTERN SONGS.* THERE is happily no need to introduce "
Ben Kendim " to readers of the Spectator. Some of the most characteristic pieces in this little volume have appeared in these columns— notably the " Song of Rivers," " Grace before Sleep," and the charming fantasy headed "E poi—." But there are others, including several hitherto unpublished poems, in which the same fine qualities are as conspicuously shown. " Ben Kendim's " standpoint is not easy to define, but the titles and dates of his poems throw some light on it. His "new version" of Galahad was written in the Red Sea. " The Insurgents' Song " is dated Serfidje, 1904 ; " The Albanian in the Yemen" and "Ahmed Ali on Woman's Suffrage" are both dated from Constantinople, and other pieces have their local inspiration in Korea, Seville, Malaya, Sassari, and Sydney. But " Ben Kendim " is not only a traveller ; he is a knight-errant and a mystic :—
" The high road was not made for me,
I want the woods where dawn lies wet. Your goal lies onward, where you see ; The forest hills hide mine as yet."
The Realpolitik of Bismarck lashes him into a fury of abuse. He loves adventure, so it be disinterested or Quixotic, as in the delightful ballad of " Semanghellina and the mad- blooded Youth," and his attitude toward woman is instinct with a delicate reverence.
"The tender stars were tangled in her hair,
The dewdrops fought for light about her feet, She was so beautiful a man would swear God's Mother walked to make night sweet."
Yet, as he says in another place, "Your gift is peace from restless search, peace for your sake I would not win," and we may assume that he approves of Ahmed Ali in his contempt for "weak women wailing fcr a sword to man their woman- hood." But with all his love of the East and its magic "Ben Kendim " is at heart a Crusader. His "Insurgents' Song," an appeal to the rulers of Christian nations, is lit by a genuine indignation:—
" 0 Lords who are strong and wise, shall we take what our masters give ?
Better die as a wild beast dies than live as the cattle live.
Is there one of your words unbroken, your promise of pleasant things ?
Our innocent dead are token of the worth of the words of kings.
" Ye are girdled with safety, Preachers, ye know that your lives are sure.
Ye would give us your wisdom, Teachers, and bid us 'endure, endure,' Ye have never hated night for the sake of those that are dear, Ye say, ' Ye are mad with fright.' By God ! we have met with fear."
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