Ernest Dowson

The mountains, and the lonely death at lastUpon the lonely mountains: O strong friend!The wandering over, and the labour passed,Thou art indeed at rest:Earth gave thee of her best,That labour and this end.Earth was thy mother, and her true son thou:Earth called thee to a knowledge of her ways,Upon the great hills, up the great streams: nowUpon earth's kindly breastThou art indeed at rest:Thou, and thine arduous days.Fare thee well, O strong heart! The tranquil nightLooks calmly on thee: and the sun pours downHis glory over thee, O heart of might!Earth gives thee perfect rest:Earth, whom thy swift feet pressed:Earth, whom the vast stars crown.

Earth was thy mother, and her true son thou:Earth called thee to a knowledge of her ways,Upon the great hills, up the great streams: nowUpon earth's kindly breastThou art indeed at rest:Thou, and thine arduous days.

Fare thee well, O strong heart! The tranquil nightLooks calmly on thee: and the sun pours downHis glory over thee, O heart of might!Earth gives thee perfect rest:Earth, whom thy swift feet pressed:Earth, whom the vast stars crown.

Ernest Dowson was born at Belmont Hill in Kent in 1867. His great-uncle was Alfred Domett (Browning's "Waring"), who was at one time Prime Minister of New Zealand. Dowson, practically an invalid all his life, was reckless with himselfand, as disease weakened him more and more, hid himself in miserable surroundings; for almost two years he lived in sordid supper-houses known as "cabmen's shelters." He literally drank himself to death.

His delicate and fantastic poetry was an attempt to escape from a reality too big and brutal for him. His passionate lyric, "I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion," a triumph of despair and disillusion, is an outburst in which Dowson epitomized himself—"One of the greatest lyrical poems of our time," writes Arthur Symons, "in it he has for once said everything, and he has said it to an intoxicating and perhaps immortal music."

Dowson died obscure in 1900, one of the finest of modern minor poets. His life was the tragedy of a weak nature buffeted by a strong and merciless environment.

With delicate, mad hands, behind his sordid bars,Surely he hath his posies, which they tear and twine;Those scentless wisps of straw that, miserable, lineHis strait, caged universe, whereat the dull world stares.Pedant and pitiful. O, how his rapt gaze warsWith their stupidity! Know they what dreams divineLift his long, laughing reveries like enchanted wine,And make his melancholy germane to the stars'?O lamentable brother! if those pity thee,Am I not fain of all thy lone eyes promise me;Half a fool's kingdom, far from men who sow and reap,All their days, vanity? Better than mortal flowers,Thy moon-kissed roses seem: better than love or sleep,The star-crowned solitude of thine oblivious hours!

Pedant and pitiful. O, how his rapt gaze warsWith their stupidity! Know they what dreams divineLift his long, laughing reveries like enchanted wine,And make his melancholy germane to the stars'?

O lamentable brother! if those pity thee,Am I not fain of all thy lone eyes promise me;Half a fool's kingdom, far from men who sow and reap,All their days, vanity? Better than mortal flowers,Thy moon-kissed roses seem: better than love or sleep,The star-crowned solitude of thine oblivious hours!

You would have understood me, had you waited;I could have loved you, dear! as well as he:Had we not been impatient, dear! and fatedAlways to disagree.What is the use of speech? Silence were fitter:Lest we should still be wishing things unsaid.Though all the words we ever spake were bitter,Shall I reproach you, dead?Nay, let this earth, your portion, likewise coverAll the old anger, setting us apart:Always, in all, in truth was I your lover;Always, I held your heart.I have met other women who were tender,As you were cold, dear! with a grace as rare.Think you, I turned to them, or made surrender,I who had found you fair?Had we been patient, dear! ah, had you waited,I had fought death for you, better than he:But from the very first, dear! we were fatedAlways to disagree.Late, late, I come to you, now death disclosesLove that in life was not to be our part:On your low lying mound between the roses,Sadly I cast my heart.I would not waken you: nay! this is fitter;Death and the darkness give you unto me;Here we who loved so, were so cold and bitter,Hardly can disagree.

You would have understood me, had you waited;I could have loved you, dear! as well as he:Had we not been impatient, dear! and fatedAlways to disagree.

What is the use of speech? Silence were fitter:Lest we should still be wishing things unsaid.Though all the words we ever spake were bitter,Shall I reproach you, dead?

Nay, let this earth, your portion, likewise coverAll the old anger, setting us apart:Always, in all, in truth was I your lover;Always, I held your heart.

I have met other women who were tender,As you were cold, dear! with a grace as rare.Think you, I turned to them, or made surrender,I who had found you fair?

Had we been patient, dear! ah, had you waited,I had fought death for you, better than he:But from the very first, dear! we were fatedAlways to disagree.

Late, late, I come to you, now death disclosesLove that in life was not to be our part:On your low lying mound between the roses,Sadly I cast my heart.

I would not waken you: nay! this is fitter;Death and the darkness give you unto me;Here we who loved so, were so cold and bitter,Hardly can disagree.

At Durgan, a tiny town in the north of Ireland, George William Russell was born in 1867. He moved to Dublin when he was 10 years old and, as a young man, helped to form the group that gave rise to the Irish Renascence—the group of which William Butler Yeats, Doctor Douglas Hyde, Katharine Tynan and Lady Gregory were brilliant members. Besides being a splendid mystical poet, "A. E." is a painter of note, a fiery patriot, a distinguished sociologist, a public speaker, a student of economics and one of the heads of the Irish Agricultural Association.

The best of his poetry is inHomeward Songs by the Way(1894) andThe Earth Breath and Other Poems. Yeats has spoken of these poems as "revealing in all things a kind of scented flame consuming them from within."

Its edges foamed with amethyst and rose,Withers once more the old blue flower of day:There where the ether like a diamond glows,Its petals fade away.A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air;Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows;The great deep thrills—for through it everywhereThe breath of Beauty blows.I saw how all the trembling ages past,Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath,Near'd to the hour when Beauty breathes her lastAnd knows herself in death.

Its edges foamed with amethyst and rose,Withers once more the old blue flower of day:There where the ether like a diamond glows,Its petals fade away.

A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air;Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows;The great deep thrills—for through it everywhereThe breath of Beauty blows.

I saw how all the trembling ages past,Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath,Near'd to the hour when Beauty breathes her lastAnd knows herself in death.

Far up the dim twilight flutteredMoth-wings of vapour and flame:The lights danced over the mountains,Star after star they came.The lights grew thicker unheeded,For silent and still were we;Our hearts were drunk with a beautyOur eyes could never see.

Far up the dim twilight flutteredMoth-wings of vapour and flame:The lights danced over the mountains,Star after star they came.

The lights grew thicker unheeded,For silent and still were we;Our hearts were drunk with a beautyOur eyes could never see.

Born in 1868, Stephen Phillips is best known as the author ofHerod(1900),Paola and Francesca(1899), andUlysses(1902); a poetic playwright who succeeded in reviving, for a brief interval, the blank verse drama on the modern stage. Hailed at first with extravagant and almost incredible praise, Phillips lived to see his most popular dramas discarded and his new ones, such asPietro of Siena(1910), unproduced and unnoticed.

Phillips failed to "restore" poetic drama because he was, first of all, a lyric rather than a dramatic poet. In spite of certain moments of rhetorical splendor, his scenes are spectacular instead of emotional; his inspiration is too often derived from other models. He died in 1915.

Herod speaks:I dreamed last night of a dome of beaten goldTo be a counter-glory to the Sun.There shall the eagle blindly dash himself,There the first beam shall strike, and there the moonShall aim all night her argent archery;And it shall be the tryst of sundered stars,The haunt of dead and dreaming Solomon;Shall send a light upon the lost in Hell,And flashings upon faces without hope.—And I will think in gold and dream in silver,Imagine in marble and conceive in bronze,Till it shall dazzle pilgrim nationsAnd stammering tribes from undiscovered lands,Allure the living God out of the bliss,And all the streaming seraphim from heaven.

Beautiful lie the dead;Clear comes each feature;Satisfied not to be,Strangely contented.Like ships, the anchor dropped,Furled every sail is;Mirrored with all their mastsIn a deep water.

Beautiful lie the dead;Clear comes each feature;Satisfied not to be,Strangely contented.

Like ships, the anchor dropped,Furled every sail is;Mirrored with all their mastsIn a deep water.

My dead love came to me, and said:'God gives me one hour's rest,To spend with thee on earth again:How shall we spend it best?''Why, as of old,' I said; and soWe quarrelled, as of old:But, when I turned to make my peace,That one short hour was told.

My dead love came to me, and said:'God gives me one hour's rest,To spend with thee on earth again:How shall we spend it best?'

'Why, as of old,' I said; and soWe quarrelled, as of old:But, when I turned to make my peace,That one short hour was told.

Laurence Binyon was born at Lancaster, August 10, 1869, a cousin of Stephen Phillips; inPrimavera(1890) their early poems appeared together. Binyon's subsequent volumes showed little distinction until he publishedLondon Visions, which, in an enlarged edition in 1908, revealed a gift of characterization and a turn of speech in surprising contrast to his previous academicLyrical Poems(1894). HisOdes(1901) contains his ripest work; two poems in particular, "The Threshold" and "The Bacchanal of Alexander," are glowing and unusually spontaneous.

Binyon's power has continued to grow; age has given his verse a new sharpness. "The House That Was," one of his most recent poems, appeared inThe London Mercury, November, 1919.

For Mercy, Courage, Kindness, Mirth,There is no measure upon earth.Nay, they wither, root and stem,If an end be set to them.Overbrim and overflow,If your own heart you would know;For the spirit born to blessLives but in its own excess.

For Mercy, Courage, Kindness, Mirth,There is no measure upon earth.Nay, they wither, root and stem,If an end be set to them.

Overbrim and overflow,If your own heart you would know;For the spirit born to blessLives but in its own excess.

Of the old house, only a few crumbledCourses of brick, smothered in nettle and dock,Or a squared stone, lying mossy where it tumbled!Sprawling bramble and saucy thistle mockWhat once was firelit floor and private charmWhere, seen in a windowed picture, hills were fadingAt dusk, and all was memory-coloured and warm,And voices talked, secure from the wind's invading.Of the old garden, only a stray shiningOf daffodil flames amid April's cuckoo-flowers,Or a cluster of aconite mixt with weeds entwining!But, dark and lofty, a royal cedar towersBy homely thorns: whether the white rain driftsOr sun scorches, he holds the downs in ken,The western vale; his branchy tiers he lifts,Older than many a generation of men.

Of the old garden, only a stray shiningOf daffodil flames amid April's cuckoo-flowers,Or a cluster of aconite mixt with weeds entwining!But, dark and lofty, a royal cedar towersBy homely thorns: whether the white rain driftsOr sun scorches, he holds the downs in ken,The western vale; his branchy tiers he lifts,Older than many a generation of men.

Lord Alfred Douglas was born in 1870 and educated at Magdalen College, Oxford. He was the editor ofThe Academyfrom 1907 to 1910 and was at one time the intimate friendof Oscar Wilde. One of the minor poets of "the eighteen-nineties," several of his poems rise above his own affectations and the end-of-the-century decadence.The City of the Soul(1899) andSonnets(1900) contain his most graceful writing.

I know a green grass path that leaves the fieldAnd, like a running river, winds alongInto a leafy wood, where is no throngOf birds at noon-day; and no soft throats yieldTheir music to the moon. The place is sealed,An unclaimed sovereignty of voiceless song,And all the unravished silences belongTo some sweet singer lost, or unrevealed.So is my soul become a silent place....Oh, may I wake from this uneasy nightTo find some voice of music manifold.Let it be shape of sorrow with wan face,Or love that swoons on sleep, or else delightThat is as wide-eyed as a marigold.

So is my soul become a silent place....Oh, may I wake from this uneasy nightTo find some voice of music manifold.Let it be shape of sorrow with wan face,Or love that swoons on sleep, or else delightThat is as wide-eyed as a marigold.

Thomas Sturge Moore was born March 4, 1870. He is well known not only as an author, but as a critic and wood-engraver. As an artist, he has achieved no little distinction and has designed the covers for the poetry of W. B. Yeats and others. As a poet, the greater portion of his verse is severely classical in tone, academic in expression but, of its kind, distinctive and intimate. Among his many volumes, the most outstanding areThe Vinedresser and Other Poems(1899),A Sicilian Idyll(1911) andThe Sea Is Kind(1914).

O silver-throated SwanStruck, struck! A golden dartClean through thy breast has goneHome to thy heart.Thrill, thrill, O silver throat!O silver trumpet, pourLove for defiance backOn him who smote!And brim, brim o'erWith love; and ruby-dye thy trackDown thy last living reachOf river, sail the golden light—Enter the sun's heart—even teachO wondrous-gifted Pain, teach ThouThe God of love, let him learn how!

So faint, no ear is sure it hears,So faint and far;So vast that very near appearsMy voice, both here and in each starUnmeasured leagues do bridge between;Like that which on a face is seenWhere secrets are;Sweeping, like veils of lofty balm,Tresses unboundO'er desert sand, o'er ocean calm,I am wherever is not sound;And, goddess of the truthful face,My beauty doth instil its graceThat joy abound.

According to his own biography, William H. Davies was born in a public-house called Church House at Newport, in the County of Monmouthshire, April 20, 1870, of Welsh parents. He was, until Bernard Shaw "discovered" him, a cattleman, a berry-picker, a panhandler—in short, a vagabond. In a preface to Davies' second book,The Autobiography of a Super-Tramp(1906), Shaw describes how the manuscript came into his hands:

"In the year 1905 I received by post a volume of poems by one William H. Davies, whose address was The Farm House, Kensington, S. E. I was surprised to learn that there was still a farmhouse left in Kensington; for I did not then suspect that the Farm House, like the Shepherdess Walks and Nightingale Lane and Whetstone Parks of Bethnal Green and Holborn, is so called nowadays in irony, and is, in fact, a doss-house, or hostelry, where single men can have a night's lodging, for, at most, sixpence.... The author, as far as I could guess, had walked into a printer's or stationer's shop; handed in his manuscript; and ordered his book as he might have ordered a pair of boots. It was marked 'price, half a crown.' An accompanying letter asked me very civilly if I required a half-crown book of verses; and if so, would I please send the author the half crown: if not, would I return the book. This was attractively simple and sensible. I openedthe book, and was more puzzled than ever; for before I had read three lines I perceived that the author was a real poet. His work was not in the least strenuous or modern; there was indeed no sign of his ever having read anything otherwise than as a child reads.... Here, I saw, was a genuine innocent, writing odds and ends of verse about odds and ends of things; living quite out of the world in which such things are usually done, and knowing no better (or rather no worse) than to get his book made by the appropriate craftsman and hawk it round like any other ware."

It is more than likely that Davies' first notoriety as a tramp-poet who had ridden the rails in the United States and had had his right foot cut off by a train in Canada, obscured his merits as a genuine singer. Even his earlyThe Soul's Destroyer(1907) revealed that simplicity which is asnaïfas it is strange. The volumes that followed are more clearly melodious, more like the visionary wonder of Blake, more artistically artless.

With the exception of "The Villain," which has not yet appeared in book form, the following poems are taken fromThe Collected Poems of W. H. Davies(1916) with the permission of the publisher, Alfred A. Knopf.

When primroses are out in Spring,And small, blue violets come between;When merry birds sing on boughs green,And rills, as soon as born, must sing;When butterflies will make side-leaps,As though escaped from Nature's handEre perfect quite; and bees will standUpon their heads in fragrant deeps;When small clouds are so silvery whiteEach seems a broken rimmèd moon—When such things are, this world too soon,For me, doth wear the veil of Night.

When primroses are out in Spring,And small, blue violets come between;When merry birds sing on boughs green,And rills, as soon as born, must sing;

When butterflies will make side-leaps,As though escaped from Nature's handEre perfect quite; and bees will standUpon their heads in fragrant deeps;

When small clouds are so silvery whiteEach seems a broken rimmèd moon—When such things are, this world too soon,For me, doth wear the veil of Night.

Thy beauty haunts me heart and soul,Oh, thou fair Moon, so close and bright;Thy beauty makes me like the childThat cries aloud to own thy light:The little child that lifts each armTo press thee to her bosom warm.Though there are birds that sing this nightWith thy white beams across their throats,Let my deep silence speak for meMore than for them their sweetest notes:Who worships thee till music fails,Is greater than thy nightingales.

Though there are birds that sing this nightWith thy white beams across their throats,Let my deep silence speak for meMore than for them their sweetest notes:Who worships thee till music fails,Is greater than thy nightingales.

While joy gave clouds the light of stars,That beamed where'er they looked;And calves and lambs had tottering knees,Excited, while they sucked;While every bird enjoyed his song,Without one thought of harm or wrong—I turned my head and saw the wind,Not far from where I stood,Dragging the corn by her golden hair,Into a dark and lonely wood.

Here's an example fromA Butterfly;That on a rough, hard rockHappy can lie;Friendless and all aloneOn this unsweetened stone.Now let my bed be hard,No care take I;I'll make my joy like thisSmall Butterfly;Whose happy heart has powerTo make a stone a flower.

Here's an example fromA Butterfly;That on a rough, hard rockHappy can lie;Friendless and all aloneOn this unsweetened stone.

Now let my bed be hard,No care take I;I'll make my joy like thisSmall Butterfly;Whose happy heart has powerTo make a stone a flower.

Hilaire Belloc, who has been described as "a Frenchman, an Englishman, an Oxford man, a country gentleman, a soldier, a satirist, a democrat, a novelist, and a practical journalist," was born July 27, 1870. After leaving school he served as adriver in the 8th Regiment of French Artillery at Toul Meurthe-et-Moselle, being at that time a French citizen. He was naturalized as a British subject somewhat later, and in 1906 he entered the House of Commons as Liberal Member for South Salford.

As an author, he has engaged in multiple activities. He has written three satirical novels, one of which,Mr. Clutterbuck's Election, sharply exposes British newspapers and underground politics. HisPath to Rome(1902) is a high-spirited and ever-delightful travel book which has passed through many editions. His historical studies and biographies ofRobespierreandMarie Antoinette(1909) are classics of their kind. As a poet he is only somewhat less engaging. HisVerses(1910) is a rather brief collection of poems on a wide variety of themes. Although his humorous and burlesque stanzas are refreshing, Belloc is most himself when he writes either of malt liquor or his beloved Sussex. Though his religious poems are full of a fine romanticism, "The South Country" is the most pictorial and persuasive of his serious poems. His poetic as well as his spiritual kinship with G. K. Chesterton is obvious.

When I am living in the MidlandsThat are sodden and unkind,I light my lamp in the evening:My work is left behind;And the great hills of the South CountryCome back into my mind.The great hills of the South CountryThey stand along the sea;And it's there walking in the high woodsThat I could wish to be,And the men that were boys when I was a boyWalking along with me.The men that live in North EnglandI saw them for a day:Their hearts are set upon the waste fells,Their skies are fast and grey;From their castle-walls a man may seeThe mountains far away.The men that live in West EnglandThey see the Severn strong,A-rolling on rough water brownLight aspen leaves along.They have the secret of the Rocks,And the oldest kind of song.But the men that live in the South CountryAre the kindest and most wise,They get their laughter from the loud surf,And the faith in their happy eyesComes surely from our Sister the SpringWhen over the sea she flies;The violets suddenly bloom at her feet,She blesses us with surprise.I never get between the pinesBut I smell the Sussex air;Nor I never come on a belt of sandBut my home is there.And along the sky the line of the DownsSo noble and so bare.A lost thing could I never find,Nor a broken thing mend:And I fear I shall be all aloneWhen I get towards the end.Who will there be to comfort meOr who will be my friend?I will gather and carefully make my friendsOf the men of the Sussex Weald;They watch the stars from silent folds,They stiffly plough the field.By them and the God of the South CountryMy poor soul shall be healed.If I ever become a rich man,Or if ever I grow to be old,I will build a house with deep thatchTo shelter me from the cold,And there shall the Sussex songs be sungAnd the story of Sussex told.I will hold my house in the high woodWithin a walk of the sea,And the men that were boys when I was a boyShall sit and drink with me.

When I am living in the MidlandsThat are sodden and unkind,I light my lamp in the evening:My work is left behind;And the great hills of the South CountryCome back into my mind.

The great hills of the South CountryThey stand along the sea;And it's there walking in the high woodsThat I could wish to be,And the men that were boys when I was a boyWalking along with me.

The men that live in North EnglandI saw them for a day:Their hearts are set upon the waste fells,Their skies are fast and grey;From their castle-walls a man may seeThe mountains far away.

The men that live in West EnglandThey see the Severn strong,A-rolling on rough water brownLight aspen leaves along.They have the secret of the Rocks,And the oldest kind of song.

But the men that live in the South CountryAre the kindest and most wise,They get their laughter from the loud surf,And the faith in their happy eyesComes surely from our Sister the SpringWhen over the sea she flies;The violets suddenly bloom at her feet,She blesses us with surprise.

I never get between the pinesBut I smell the Sussex air;Nor I never come on a belt of sandBut my home is there.And along the sky the line of the DownsSo noble and so bare.

A lost thing could I never find,Nor a broken thing mend:And I fear I shall be all aloneWhen I get towards the end.Who will there be to comfort meOr who will be my friend?

I will gather and carefully make my friendsOf the men of the Sussex Weald;They watch the stars from silent folds,They stiffly plough the field.By them and the God of the South CountryMy poor soul shall be healed.

If I ever become a rich man,Or if ever I grow to be old,I will build a house with deep thatchTo shelter me from the cold,And there shall the Sussex songs be sungAnd the story of Sussex told.

I will hold my house in the high woodWithin a walk of the sea,And the men that were boys when I was a boyShall sit and drink with me.

Anthony C. Deane was born in 1870 and was the Seatonian prizeman in 1905 at Clare College, Cambridge. He has been Vicar of All Saints, Ennismore Gardens, since 1916. His longlist of light verse and essays includes several excellent parodies, the most delightful being found in hisNew Rhymes for Old(1901).

It was the good shipBillycock, with thirteen men aboard,Athirst to grapple with their country's foes,—A crew, 'twill be admitted, not numerically fittedTo navigate a battleship in prose.It was the good shipBillycockput out from Plymouth Sound,While lustily the gallant heroes cheered,And all the air was ringing with the merry bo'sun's singing,Till in the gloom of night she disappeared.But when the morning broke on her, behold, a dozen ships,A dozen ships of France around her lay,(Or, if that isn't plenty, I will gladly make it twenty),And hemmed her close in Salamander Bay.Then to the Lord High Admiral there spake a cabin-boy:"Methinks," he said, "the odds are somewhat great,And, in the present crisis, a cabin-boy's advice isThat you and France had better arbitrate!""Pooh!" said the Lord High Admiral, and slapped his manly chest,"Pooh! That would be both cowardly and wrong;Shall I, a gallant fighter, give the needy ballad-writerNo suitable material for song?""Nay—is the shorthand-writer here?—I tell you, one and all,I mean to do my duty, as I ought;With eager satisfaction let us clear the decks for actionAnd fight the craven Frenchmen!" So they fought.And (after several stanzas which as yet are incomplete,Describing all the fight in epic style)When theBillycockwas going, she'd a dozen prizes towing(Or twenty, as above) in single file!Ah, long in glowing English hearts the story will remain,The memory of that historic day,And, while we rule the ocean, we will picture with emotionTheBillycockin Salamander Bay!P.S.—I've lately noticed that the critics—who, I think,In praisingmyproductions are remiss—Quite easily are captured, and profess themselves enraptured,By patriotic ditties such as this,For making which you merely take some dauntless Englishmen,Guns, heroism, slaughter, and a fleet—Ingredients you mingle in a metre with a jingle,And there you have your masterpiece complete!Why, then, with labour infinite, produce a book of verseTo languish on the "All for Twopence" shelf?The ballad bold and breezy comes particularly easy—I mean to take to writing it myself!

It was the good shipBillycock, with thirteen men aboard,Athirst to grapple with their country's foes,—A crew, 'twill be admitted, not numerically fittedTo navigate a battleship in prose.

It was the good shipBillycockput out from Plymouth Sound,While lustily the gallant heroes cheered,And all the air was ringing with the merry bo'sun's singing,Till in the gloom of night she disappeared.

But when the morning broke on her, behold, a dozen ships,A dozen ships of France around her lay,(Or, if that isn't plenty, I will gladly make it twenty),And hemmed her close in Salamander Bay.

Then to the Lord High Admiral there spake a cabin-boy:"Methinks," he said, "the odds are somewhat great,And, in the present crisis, a cabin-boy's advice isThat you and France had better arbitrate!"

"Pooh!" said the Lord High Admiral, and slapped his manly chest,"Pooh! That would be both cowardly and wrong;Shall I, a gallant fighter, give the needy ballad-writerNo suitable material for song?"

"Nay—is the shorthand-writer here?—I tell you, one and all,I mean to do my duty, as I ought;With eager satisfaction let us clear the decks for actionAnd fight the craven Frenchmen!" So they fought.

And (after several stanzas which as yet are incomplete,Describing all the fight in epic style)When theBillycockwas going, she'd a dozen prizes towing(Or twenty, as above) in single file!

Ah, long in glowing English hearts the story will remain,The memory of that historic day,And, while we rule the ocean, we will picture with emotionTheBillycockin Salamander Bay!

P.S.—I've lately noticed that the critics—who, I think,In praisingmyproductions are remiss—Quite easily are captured, and profess themselves enraptured,By patriotic ditties such as this,

For making which you merely take some dauntless Englishmen,Guns, heroism, slaughter, and a fleet—Ingredients you mingle in a metre with a jingle,And there you have your masterpiece complete!

Why, then, with labour infinite, produce a book of verseTo languish on the "All for Twopence" shelf?The ballad bold and breezy comes particularly easy—I mean to take to writing it myself!

Oh, I be vun of the useful troibeO' rustic volk, I be;And writin' gennelmen dü descroibeThe doin's o' such as we;I don't knaw mooch o' corliflower plants,I can't tell 'oes from trowels,But 'ear me mix ma consonants,An' moodle oop all ma vowels!I talks in a wunnerful dialectThat vew can hunderstand,'Tis Yorkshire-Zummerzet, I expect,With a dash o' the Oirish brand;Sometimes a bloomin' flower of speechI picks from Cockney spots,And when releegious truths I teach,Obsairve ma richt gude Scots!In most of the bukes, 'twas once the caseI 'adn't got much to do,I blessed the 'eroine's purty face,An' I seëd the 'ero through;But now, I'm juist a pairsonage!A power o' bukes there beWhich from the start to the very last pageEntoirely deal with me!The wit or the point o' what I spakesYe've got to find if ye can;A wunnerful difference spellin' makesIn the 'ands of a competent man!I mayn't knaw mooch o' corliflower plants,I mayn't knaw 'oes from trowels,But I does ma wark, if ma consonantsBe properly mixed with ma vowels!

I talks in a wunnerful dialectThat vew can hunderstand,'Tis Yorkshire-Zummerzet, I expect,With a dash o' the Oirish brand;Sometimes a bloomin' flower of speechI picks from Cockney spots,And when releegious truths I teach,Obsairve ma richt gude Scots!

In most of the bukes, 'twas once the caseI 'adn't got much to do,I blessed the 'eroine's purty face,An' I seëd the 'ero through;But now, I'm juist a pairsonage!A power o' bukes there beWhich from the start to the very last pageEntoirely deal with me!

The wit or the point o' what I spakesYe've got to find if ye can;A wunnerful difference spellin' makesIn the 'ands of a competent man!I mayn't knaw mooch o' corliflower plants,I mayn't knaw 'oes from trowels,But I does ma wark, if ma consonantsBe properly mixed with ma vowels!

The most brilliant star of the Celtic revival was born at Rathfarnham, near Dublin, in 1871. As a child in Wicklow, he was already fascinated by the strange idioms and the rhythmic speech he heard there, a native utterance which was his greatest delight and which was to be rich material for his greatest work. He did not use this folk-language merely as he heard it. He was an artist first and last, and as an artist he bent and shaped the rough material, selecting with great fastidiousness, so that in his plays every speech is, as he himself declared all good speech should be, "as fully flavored as a nut or apple." Even inThe Tinker's Wedding(1907), possibly the least important of his plays, one is arrested by snatches like:

"That's a sweet tongue you have, Sarah Casey; but if sleep's a grand thing, it's a grand thing to be waking up a day the like of this, when there's a warm sun in it, and a kind air, and you'll hear the cuckoos singing and crying out on the top of the hill."

For some time, Synge's career was uncertain. He went to Germany half intending to become a professional musician. There he studied the theory of music, perfecting himself meanwhile in Gaelic and Hebrew, winning prizes in both of these languages. Yeats found him in France in 1898 and advised him to go to the Aran Islands, to live there as if he were one of the people. "Express a life," said Yeats, "that has never found expression." Synge went. He became part of the life of Aran, living upon salt fish and eggs, talking Irish for the most part but listening also to that beautiful English which, to quote Yeats again, "has grown up in Irish-speaking districts and takes its vocabulary from the time of Malory and of the translators of the Bible, but its idiom and vivid metaphor from Irish." The result of this close contact was five of the greatest poetic prose dramas not only of his own generation, but of several generations preceding it. (See Preface.)

InRiders to the Sea(1903),The Well of the Saints(1905), andThe Playboy of the Western World(1907) we have a richness of imagery, a new language startling in its vigor, a wildness and passion that contrast strangely with the suave mysticism and delicate spirituality of his associates in the Irish Theatre.

Synge'sPoems and Translations(1910), a volume which was not issued until after his death, contains not only his few hard and earthy verses, but also Synge's theory of poetry. The translations, which have been rendered in a highly intensified prose, are as racy as anything in his plays; his versions of Villon and Petrarch are remarkable for their adherence to the original and still radiate the poet's own personality.

Synge died, just as he was beginning to attain fame, at a private hospital in Dublin March 24, 1909.

Bring Kateen-beug and Maurya JudeTo dance in Beg-Innish,[13]And when the lads (they're in Dunquin)Have sold their crabs and fish,Wave fawny shawls and call them in,And call the little girls who spin,And seven weavers from Dunquin,To dance in Beg-Innish.I'll play you jigs, and Maurice Kean,Where nets are laid to dry,I've silken strings would draw a danceFrom girls are lame or shy;Four strings I've brought from Spain and FranceTo make your long men skip and prance,Till stars look out to see the danceWhere nets are laid to dry.We'll have no priest or peeler inTo dance in Beg-Innish;But we'll have drink from M'riarty JimRowed round while gannets fish,A keg with porter to the brim,That every lad may have his whim,Till we up sails with M'riarty JimAnd sail from Beg-Innish.

I'll play you jigs, and Maurice Kean,Where nets are laid to dry,I've silken strings would draw a danceFrom girls are lame or shy;Four strings I've brought from Spain and FranceTo make your long men skip and prance,Till stars look out to see the danceWhere nets are laid to dry.

We'll have no priest or peeler inTo dance in Beg-Innish;But we'll have drink from M'riarty JimRowed round while gannets fish,A keg with porter to the brim,That every lad may have his whim,Till we up sails with M'riarty JimAnd sail from Beg-Innish.

(He is Jealous of the Heavens and the Earth)What a grudge I am bearing the earth that has its arms about her, and is holding that face away from me, where I was finding peace from great sadness.What a grudge I am bearing the Heavens that are after taking her, and shutting her in with greediness, the Heavens that do push their bolt against so many.What a grudge I am bearing the blessed saints that have got her sweet company, that I am always seeking; and what a grudge I am bearing against Death, that is standing in her two eyes, and will not call me with a word.

(He is Jealous of the Heavens and the Earth)

What a grudge I am bearing the earth that has its arms about her, and is holding that face away from me, where I was finding peace from great sadness.

What a grudge I am bearing the Heavens that are after taking her, and shutting her in with greediness, the Heavens that do push their bolt against so many.

What a grudge I am bearing the blessed saints that have got her sweet company, that I am always seeking; and what a grudge I am bearing against Death, that is standing in her two eyes, and will not call me with a word.

My arms are round you, and I leanAgainst you, while the larkSings over us, and golden lights, and greenShadows are on your bark.There'll come a season when you'll stretchBlack boards to cover me;Then in Mount Jerome I will lie, poor wretch,With worms eternally.

My arms are round you, and I leanAgainst you, while the larkSings over us, and golden lights, and greenShadows are on your bark.

There'll come a season when you'll stretchBlack boards to cover me;Then in Mount Jerome I will lie, poor wretch,With worms eternally.

FOOTNOTES:[13](The accent is on the last syllable.)

[13](The accent is on the last syllable.)

Nora Hopper was born in Exeter on January 2, 1871, and married W. H. Chesson, a well-known writer, in 1901. Although the Irish element in her work is acquired and incidental, there is a distinct if somewhat fitful race consciousness inBallads in Prose(1894) andUnder Quickened Boughs(1896). She died suddenly April 14, 1906.

I will arise and go hence to the west,And dig me a grave where the hill-winds call;But O were I dead, were I dust, the fallOf my own love's footstep would break my rest!My heart in my bosom is black as a sloe!I heed not cuckoo, nor wren, nor swallow:Like a flying leaf in the sky's blue hollowThe heart in my breast is, that beats so low.Because of the words your lips have spoken,(O dear black head that I must not follow)My heart is a grave that is stripped and hollow,As ice on the water my heart is broken.O lips forgetful and kindness fickle,The swallow goes south with you: I go westWhere fields are empty and scythes at rest.I am the poppy and you the sickle;My heart is broken within my breast.

I will arise and go hence to the west,And dig me a grave where the hill-winds call;But O were I dead, were I dust, the fallOf my own love's footstep would break my rest!

My heart in my bosom is black as a sloe!I heed not cuckoo, nor wren, nor swallow:Like a flying leaf in the sky's blue hollowThe heart in my breast is, that beats so low.

Because of the words your lips have spoken,(O dear black head that I must not follow)My heart is a grave that is stripped and hollow,As ice on the water my heart is broken.

O lips forgetful and kindness fickle,The swallow goes south with you: I go westWhere fields are empty and scythes at rest.I am the poppy and you the sickle;My heart is broken within my breast.

Eva Gore-Booth, the second daughter of Sir Henry Gore-Booth and the sister of Countess Marcievicz, was born in Sligo, Ireland, in 1872. She first appeared in "A. E."'s anthology,New Songs, in which so many of the modern Irish poets first came forward.

Her initial volume,Poems(1898), showed practically no distinction—not even the customary "promise." ButThe One and the Many(1904) andThe Sorrowful Princess(1907) revealed the gift of the Celtic singer who is half mystic, half minstrel. Primarily philosophic, her verse often turns to lyrics as haunting as the two examples here reprinted.

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