FOOTNOTES:

Facing the guns, he jokes as wellAs any Judge upon the Bench;Between the crash of shell and shellHis laughter rings along the trench;He seems immensely tickled by aProjectile while he calls a "Black Maria."He whistles down the day-long road,And, when the chilly shadows fallAnd heavier hangs the weary load,Is he down-hearted? Not at all.'Tis then he takes a light and airyView of the tedious route to Tipperary.[4]His songs are not exactly hymns;He never learned them in the choir;And yet they brace his dragging limbsAlthough they miss the sacred fire;Although his choice and cherished gemsDo not include "The Watch upon the Thames."He takes to fighting as a game;He does no talking, through his hat,Of holy missions; all the sameHe has his faith—be sure of that;He'll not disgrace his sporting breed,Nor play what isn't cricket. There's his creed.

He whistles down the day-long road,And, when the chilly shadows fallAnd heavier hangs the weary load,Is he down-hearted? Not at all.'Tis then he takes a light and airyView of the tedious route to Tipperary.[4]

His songs are not exactly hymns;He never learned them in the choir;And yet they brace his dragging limbsAlthough they miss the sacred fire;Although his choice and cherished gemsDo not include "The Watch upon the Thames."

He takes to fighting as a game;He does no talking, through his hat,Of holy missions; all the sameHe has his faith—be sure of that;He'll not disgrace his sporting breed,Nor play what isn't cricket. There's his creed.

FOOTNOTES:[4]"It's a long way to Tipperary," the most popular song of the Allied armies during the World's War.

[4]"It's a long way to Tipperary," the most popular song of the Allied armies during the World's War.

Henry Newbolt was born at Bilston in 1862. His early work was frankly imitative of Tennyson; he even attempted to add to the Arthurian legends with a drama in blank verse entitledMordred(1895). It was not until he wrote his sea-ballads that he struck his own note. With the publication ofAdmirals All(1897) his fame was widespread. The popularity of his lines was due not so much to the subject-matter of Newbolt's verse as to the breeziness of his music, the solid beat of rhythm, the vigorous swing of his stanzas.

In 1898 Newbolt publishedThe Island Race, which contains about thirty more of his buoyant songs of the sea. Besides being a poet, Newbolt has written many essays and his critical volume,A New Study of English Poetry(1917), is a collection of articles that are both analytical and alive.

Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away,(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.Yarnder lumes the island, yarnder lie the ships,Wi' sailor lads a-dancin' heel-an'-toe,An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin'He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas,(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease,An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe,"Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,Strike et when your powder's runnin' low;If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven,An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago."Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come,(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum,An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,Call him when ye sail to meet the foe;Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin',They shall find him, ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago.

Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas,(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease,An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe,"Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,Strike et when your powder's runnin' low;If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven,An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago."

Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come,(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum,An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,Call him when ye sail to meet the foe;Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin',They shall find him, ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago.

Born in 1865, Arthur Symons' first few publications revealed an intellectual rather than an emotional passion. Those volumes were full of the artifice of the period, but Symons's technical skill and frequent analysis often saved the poems from complete decadence. His later books are less imitative; the influence of Verlaine and Baudelaire is not so apparent; the sophistication is less cynical, the sensuousness more restrained. His various collections of essays and stories reflect the same peculiar blend of rich intellectuality and perfumed romanticism that one finds in his most characteristic poems.

Of his many volumes in prose,Spiritual Adventures(1905), while obviously influenced by Walter Pater, is by far the most original; a truly unique volume of psychological short stories. The best of his poetry up to 1902 was collected in two volumes,Poems, published by John Lane Co.The Fool of the Worldappeared in 1907.

I have grown tired of sorrow and human tears;Life is a dream in the night, a fear among fears,A naked runner lost in a storm of spears.I have grown tired of rapture and love's desire;Love is a flaming heart, and its flames aspireTill they cloud the soul in the smoke of a windy fire.I would wash the dust of the world in a soft green flood;Here between sea and sea, in the fairy wood,I have found a delicate, wave-green solitude.Here, in the fairy wood, between sea and sea,I have heard the song of a fairy bird in a tree,And the peace that is not in the world has flown to me.

I have grown tired of sorrow and human tears;Life is a dream in the night, a fear among fears,A naked runner lost in a storm of spears.

I have grown tired of rapture and love's desire;Love is a flaming heart, and its flames aspireTill they cloud the soul in the smoke of a windy fire.

I would wash the dust of the world in a soft green flood;Here between sea and sea, in the fairy wood,I have found a delicate, wave-green solitude.

Here, in the fairy wood, between sea and sea,I have heard the song of a fairy bird in a tree,And the peace that is not in the world has flown to me.

I am the torch, she saith, and what to meIf the moth die of me? I am the flameOf Beauty, and I burn that all may seeBeauty, and I have neither joy nor shame,But live with that clear light of perfect fireWhich is to men the death of their desire.I am Yseult and Helen, I have seenTroy burn, and the most loving knight lie dead.The world has been my mirror, time has beenMy breath upon the glass; and men have said,Age after age, in rapture and despair,Love's poor few words, before my image there.I live, and am immortal; in my eyesThe sorrow of the world, and on my lipsThe joy of life, mingle to make me wise;Yet now the day is darkened with eclipse:Who is there still lives for beauty? Still am IThe torch, but where's the moth that still dares die?

I am Yseult and Helen, I have seenTroy burn, and the most loving knight lie dead.The world has been my mirror, time has beenMy breath upon the glass; and men have said,Age after age, in rapture and despair,Love's poor few words, before my image there.

I live, and am immortal; in my eyesThe sorrow of the world, and on my lipsThe joy of life, mingle to make me wise;Yet now the day is darkened with eclipse:Who is there still lives for beauty? Still am IThe torch, but where's the moth that still dares die?

Born at Sandymount, Dublin, in 1865, the son of John B. Yeats, the Irish artist, the greater part of William Butler Yeats' childhood was spent in Sligo. Here he became imbued with the power and richness of native folk-lore; he drank in the racy quality through the quaint fairy stories and old wives' tales of the Irish peasantry. (Later he published a collection of these same stories.)

It was in the activities of a "Young Ireland" society that Yeats became identified with the new spirit; he dreamed of a national poetry that would be written in English and yet would be definitely Irish. In a few years he became one of the leaders in the Celtic revival. He worked incessantly for the cause, both as propagandist and playwright; and, though his mysticism at times seemed the product of a cult rather than a Celt, his symbolic dramas were acknowledged to be full of a haunting, other-world spirituality. (See Preface.)The Hour Glass(1904), his second volume of "Plays for an Irish Theatre," includes his best one-act dramas with the exception of his unforgettableThe Land of Heart's Desire(1894).The Wind Among the Reeds(1899) contains several of his most beautiful and characteristic poems.

Others who followed Yeats have intensified the Irish drama; they have established a closer contact between the peasant and poet. No one, however, has had so great a part in the shaping of modern drama in Ireland as Yeats. HisDeirdre(1907), a beautiful retelling of the great Gaelic legend, is far more dramatic than the earlier plays; it is particularly interesting toread with Synge's more idiomatic play on the same theme,Deirdre of the Sorrows.

The poems of Yeats which are quoted here reveal him in his most lyric and musical vein.

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,And live alone in the bee-loud glade.And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,And evening full of the linnet's wings.I will arise and go now, for always night and dayI hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,I hear it in the deep heart's core.

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and dayI hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,I hear it in the deep heart's core.

I rise in the dawn, and I kneel and blowTill the seed of the fire flicker and glow.And then I must scrub, and bake, and sweep,Till stars are beginning to blink and peep;But the young lie long and dream in their bedOf the matching of ribbons, the blue and the red,And their day goes over in idleness,And they sigh if the wind but lift up a tress.While I must work, because I am oldAnd the seed of the fire gets feeble and cold.

A Queen was beloved by a jester,And once when the owls grew stillHe made his soul go upwardAnd stand on her window sill.In a long and straight blue garment,It talked before morn was white,And it had grown wise by thinkingOf a footfall hushed and light.But the young queen would not listen;She rose in her pale nightgown,She drew in the brightening casementAnd pushed the brass bolt down.He bade his heart go to her,When the bats cried out no more,In a red and quivering garmentIt sang to her through the door.The tongue of it sweet with dreamingOf a flutter of flower-like hair,But she took up her fan from the tableAnd waved it off on the air.'I've cap and bells,' he pondered,'I will send them to her and die.'And as soon as the morn had whitenedHe left them where she went by.She laid them upon her bosom,Under a cloud of her hair,And her red lips sang them a love song.The stars grew out of the air.She opened her door and her window,And the heart and the soul came through,To her right hand came the red one,To her left hand came the blue.They set up a noise like crickets,A chattering wise and sweet,And her hair was a folded flower,And the quiet of love her feet.

A Queen was beloved by a jester,And once when the owls grew stillHe made his soul go upwardAnd stand on her window sill.

In a long and straight blue garment,It talked before morn was white,And it had grown wise by thinkingOf a footfall hushed and light.

But the young queen would not listen;She rose in her pale nightgown,She drew in the brightening casementAnd pushed the brass bolt down.

He bade his heart go to her,When the bats cried out no more,In a red and quivering garmentIt sang to her through the door.

The tongue of it sweet with dreamingOf a flutter of flower-like hair,But she took up her fan from the tableAnd waved it off on the air.

'I've cap and bells,' he pondered,'I will send them to her and die.'And as soon as the morn had whitenedHe left them where she went by.

She laid them upon her bosom,Under a cloud of her hair,And her red lips sang them a love song.The stars grew out of the air.

She opened her door and her window,And the heart and the soul came through,To her right hand came the red one,To her left hand came the blue.

They set up a noise like crickets,A chattering wise and sweet,And her hair was a folded flower,And the quiet of love her feet.

Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.In a field by the river my love and I did stand,And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

In a field by the river my love and I did stand,And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

Born at Bombay, India, December 30, 1865, Rudyard Kipling, the author of a dozen contemporary classics, was educated in England. He returned, however, to India and took a position on the staff of "The Lahore Civil and Military Gazette," writing for the Indian press until about 1890, when he went to England, where he has lived ever since, with the exception of a short sojourn in America.

Even while he was still in India he achieved a popular as well as a literary success with his dramatic and skilful tales, sketches and ballads of Anglo-Indian life.

Soldiers Three(1888) was the first of six collections of short stories brought out in "Wheeler's Railway Library." They were followed by the far more sensitive and searchingPlain Tales from the Hills,Under the DeodarsandThe Phantom 'Rikshaw, which contains two of the best and most convincing ghost-stories in recent literature.

These tales, however, display only one side of Kipling's extraordinary talents. As a writer of children's stories, he has few living equals.Wee Willie Winkie, which contains that stirring and heroic fragment "Drums of the Fore and Aft," is only a trifle less notable than his more obviously juvenile collections.Just-So Storiesand the twoJungle Books(prose interspersed with lively rhymes) are classics for young people of all ages.Kim, the novel of a super-Mowgli grown up, is a more mature masterpiece.

Considered solely as a poet (see Preface) he is one of the most vigorous and unique figures of his time. The spirit of romance surges under his realities. His brisk lines conjure up the tang of a countryside in autumn, the tingle of salt spray, the rude sentiment of ruder natures, the snapping of a banner,the lurch and rumble of the sea. His poetry is woven of the stuff of myths; but it never loses its hold on actualities. Kipling himself in his poem "The Benefactors" (fromThe Years Between[1919]) writes:

Ah! What avails the classic bentAnd what the cultured word,Against the undoctored incidentThat actually occurred?

Kipling won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1907. His varied poems have finally been collected in a remarkable one-volumeInclusive Edition(1885-1918), an indispensable part of any student's library. This gifted and prolific creator, whose work was affected by the war, has frequently lapsed into bombast and a journalistic imperialism. At his best he is unforgettable, standing mountain-high above his host of imitators. His home is at Burwash, Sussex.

You may talk o' gin an' beerWhen you're quartered safe out 'ere,An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;But if it comes to slaughterYou will do your work on water,An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got itNow in Injia's sunny clime,Where I used to spend my timeA-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,Of all them black-faced crewThe finest man I knewWas our regimentalbhisti,[5]Gunga Din.It was "Din! Din! Din!You limping lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!Hi!slippy hitherao!Water, get it!Panee lao![6]You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din!"The uniform 'e woreWas nothin' much before,An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,For a twisty piece o' ragAn' a goatskin water-bagWas all the field-equipment 'e could find.When the sweatin' troop-train layIn a sidin' through the day,Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,We shouted "Harry By!"[7]Till our throats were bricky-dry,Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.It was "Din! Din! Din!You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?You put somejuldees[8]in it,Or I'llmarrow[9]you this minute,If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"'E would dot an' carry oneTill the longest day was done,An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.If we charged or broke or cut,You could bet your bloomin' nut,'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.With 'ismussick[10]on 'is back,'E would skip with our attack,An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire."An' for all 'is dirty 'ide,'E was white, clear white, insideWhen 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!It was "Din! Din! Din!"With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.When the cartridges ran out,You could 'ear the front-files shout:"Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"I sha'n't forgit the nightWhen I dropped be'ind the fightWith a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.I was chokin' mad with thirst,An' the man that spied me firstWas our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.'E lifted up my 'ead,An' 'e plugged me where I bled,An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water—green;It was crawlin' an' it stunk,But of all the drinks I've drunk,I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.It was "Din! Din! Din!'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen;'E's chawin' up the ground an' 'e's kickin' all around:For Gawd's sake, git the water, Gunga Din!"'E carried me awayTo where adoolilay,An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.'E put me safe inside,An' just before 'e died:"I 'ope you liked your drink," sez Gunga Din.So I'll meet 'im later onIn the place where 'e is gone—Where it's always double drill and no canteen;'E'll be squattin' on the coalsGivin' drink to pore damned souls,An' I'll get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din!Din! Din! Din!You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!Tho' I've belted you an' flayed you,By the livin' Gawd that made you,You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

It was "Din! Din! Din!You limping lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!Hi!slippy hitherao!Water, get it!Panee lao![6]You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din!"

The uniform 'e woreWas nothin' much before,An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,For a twisty piece o' ragAn' a goatskin water-bagWas all the field-equipment 'e could find.When the sweatin' troop-train layIn a sidin' through the day,Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,We shouted "Harry By!"[7]Till our throats were bricky-dry,Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.

It was "Din! Din! Din!You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?You put somejuldees[8]in it,Or I'llmarrow[9]you this minute,If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"

'E would dot an' carry oneTill the longest day was done,An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.If we charged or broke or cut,You could bet your bloomin' nut,'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.With 'ismussick[10]on 'is back,'E would skip with our attack,An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire."An' for all 'is dirty 'ide,'E was white, clear white, insideWhen 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!

It was "Din! Din! Din!"With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.When the cartridges ran out,You could 'ear the front-files shout:"Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"

I sha'n't forgit the nightWhen I dropped be'ind the fightWith a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.I was chokin' mad with thirst,An' the man that spied me firstWas our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.'E lifted up my 'ead,An' 'e plugged me where I bled,An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water—green;It was crawlin' an' it stunk,But of all the drinks I've drunk,I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.

It was "Din! Din! Din!'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen;'E's chawin' up the ground an' 'e's kickin' all around:For Gawd's sake, git the water, Gunga Din!"

'E carried me awayTo where adoolilay,An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.'E put me safe inside,An' just before 'e died:"I 'ope you liked your drink," sez Gunga Din.So I'll meet 'im later onIn the place where 'e is gone—Where it's always double drill and no canteen;'E'll be squattin' on the coalsGivin' drink to pore damned souls,An' I'll get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din!

Din! Din! Din!You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!Tho' I've belted you an' flayed you,By the livin' Gawd that made you,You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

Peace is declared, and I returnTo 'Ackneystadt, but not the same;Things 'ave transpired which made me learnThe size and meanin' of the game.I did no more than others did,I don't know where the change began;I started as a average kid,I finished as a thinkin' man.If England was what England seemsAn not the England of our dreams,But only putty, brass, an' paint,'Ow quick we'd drop 'er!But she ain't!Before my gappin' mouth could speakI 'eard it in my comrade's tone;I saw it on my neighbour's cheekBefore I felt it flush my own.An' last it come to me—not pride,Nor yet conceit, but on the 'ole(If such a term may be applied),The makin's of a bloomin' soul.Rivers at night that cluck an' jeer,Plains which the moonshine turns to sea,Mountains that never let you near,An' stars to all eternity;An' the quick-breathin' dark that fillsThe 'ollows of the wilderness,When the wind worries through the 'ills—These may 'ave taught me more or less.Towns without people, ten times took,An' ten times left an' burned at last;An' starvin' dogs that come to lookFor owners when a column passed;An' quiet, 'omesick talks betweenMen, met by night, you never knewUntil—'is face—by shellfire seen—Once—an' struck off. They taught me, too.The day's lay-out—the mornin' sunBeneath your 'at-brim as you sight;The dinner-'ush from noon till one,An' the full roar that lasts till night;An' the pore dead that look so oldAn' was so young an hour ago,An' legs tied down before they're cold—These are the things which make you know.Also Time runnin' into years—A thousand Places left be'ind—An' Men from both two 'emispheresDiscussin' things of every kind;So much more near than I 'ad known,So much more great than I 'ad guessed—An' me, like all the rest, alone—But reachin' out to all the rest!So 'ath it come to me—not pride,Nor yet conceit, but on the 'ole(If such a term may be applied),The makin's of a bloomin' soul.But now, discharged, I fall awayTo do with little things again....Gawd, 'oo knows all I cannot say,Look after me in Thamesfontein!If England was what England seemsAn' not the England of our dreams,But only putty, brass, an' paint,'Ow quick we'd chuck 'er!But she ain't!

If England was what England seemsAn not the England of our dreams,But only putty, brass, an' paint,'Ow quick we'd drop 'er!But she ain't!

Before my gappin' mouth could speakI 'eard it in my comrade's tone;I saw it on my neighbour's cheekBefore I felt it flush my own.An' last it come to me—not pride,Nor yet conceit, but on the 'ole(If such a term may be applied),The makin's of a bloomin' soul.

Rivers at night that cluck an' jeer,Plains which the moonshine turns to sea,Mountains that never let you near,An' stars to all eternity;An' the quick-breathin' dark that fillsThe 'ollows of the wilderness,When the wind worries through the 'ills—These may 'ave taught me more or less.

Towns without people, ten times took,An' ten times left an' burned at last;An' starvin' dogs that come to lookFor owners when a column passed;An' quiet, 'omesick talks betweenMen, met by night, you never knewUntil—'is face—by shellfire seen—Once—an' struck off. They taught me, too.

The day's lay-out—the mornin' sunBeneath your 'at-brim as you sight;The dinner-'ush from noon till one,An' the full roar that lasts till night;An' the pore dead that look so oldAn' was so young an hour ago,An' legs tied down before they're cold—These are the things which make you know.

Also Time runnin' into years—A thousand Places left be'ind—An' Men from both two 'emispheresDiscussin' things of every kind;So much more near than I 'ad known,So much more great than I 'ad guessed—An' me, like all the rest, alone—But reachin' out to all the rest!

So 'ath it come to me—not pride,Nor yet conceit, but on the 'ole(If such a term may be applied),The makin's of a bloomin' soul.But now, discharged, I fall awayTo do with little things again....Gawd, 'oo knows all I cannot say,Look after me in Thamesfontein!

If England was what England seemsAn' not the England of our dreams,But only putty, brass, an' paint,'Ow quick we'd chuck 'er!But she ain't!

When the flush of a newborn sun fell first on Eden's green and gold,Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mold;And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves: "It's pretty, but is it Art?"Wherefore he called to his wife and fled to fashion his work anew—The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review;And he left his lore to the use of his sons—and that was a glorious gainWhen the Devil chuckled: "Is it Art?" in the ear of the branded Cain.They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart,Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: "It's striking, but is it Art?"The stone was dropped by the quarry-side, and the idle derrick swung,While each man talked of the aims of art, and each in an alien tongue.They fought and they talked in the north and the south, they talked and they fought in the west,Till the waters rose on the jabbering land, and the poor Red Clay had rest—Had rest till the dank blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start,And the Devil bubbled below the keel: "It's human, but is it Art?"The tale is old as the Eden Tree—as new as the new-cut tooth—For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth;And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart,The Devil drum on the darkened pane: "You did it, but was it Art?"We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg,We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yolk of an addled egg,We know that the tail must wag the dog, as the horse is drawn by the cart;But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: "It's clever, but is it Art?"When the flicker of London's sun falls faint on the club-room's green and gold,The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mold—They scratch with their pens in the mold of their graves, and the ink and the anguish startWhen the Devil mutters behind the leaves: "It's pretty, but is it art?"Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the four great rivers flow,And the wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago,And if we could come when the sentry slept, and softly scurry through,By the favor of God we might know as much—as our father Adam knew.

Wherefore he called to his wife and fled to fashion his work anew—The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review;And he left his lore to the use of his sons—and that was a glorious gainWhen the Devil chuckled: "Is it Art?" in the ear of the branded Cain.

They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart,Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: "It's striking, but is it Art?"The stone was dropped by the quarry-side, and the idle derrick swung,While each man talked of the aims of art, and each in an alien tongue.

They fought and they talked in the north and the south, they talked and they fought in the west,Till the waters rose on the jabbering land, and the poor Red Clay had rest—Had rest till the dank blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start,And the Devil bubbled below the keel: "It's human, but is it Art?"

The tale is old as the Eden Tree—as new as the new-cut tooth—For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth;And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart,The Devil drum on the darkened pane: "You did it, but was it Art?"

We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg,We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yolk of an addled egg,We know that the tail must wag the dog, as the horse is drawn by the cart;But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: "It's clever, but is it Art?"

When the flicker of London's sun falls faint on the club-room's green and gold,The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mold—They scratch with their pens in the mold of their graves, and the ink and the anguish startWhen the Devil mutters behind the leaves: "It's pretty, but is it art?"

Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the four great rivers flow,And the wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago,And if we could come when the sentry slept, and softly scurry through,By the favor of God we might know as much—as our father Adam knew.

To the Heavens above usO look and beholdThe Planets that love usAll harnessed in gold!What chariots, what horsesAgainst us shall bideWhile the Stars in their coursesDo fight on our side?All thought, all desires,That are under the sun,Are one with their fires,As we also are one:All matter, all spirit,All fashion, all frame,Receive and inheritTheir strength from the same.(Oh, man that deniestAll power save thine own,Their power in the highestIs mightily shown.Not less in the lowestThat power is made clear.Oh, man, if thou knowest,What treasure is here!)Earth quakes in her throesAnd we wonder for why!But the blind planet knowsWhen her ruler is nigh;And, attuned since CreationTo perfect accord,She thrills in her stationAnd yearns to her Lord.The waters have risen,The springs are unbound—The floods break their prison,And ravin around.No rampart withstands 'em,Their fury will last,Till the Sign that commands 'emSinks low or swings past.Through abysses unprovenAnd gulfs beyond thought,Our portion is woven,Our burden is brought.Yet They that prepare it,Whose Nature we share,Make us who must bear isWell able to bear.Though terrors o'ertake usWe'll not be afraid.No power can unmake usSave that which has made.Nor yet beyond reasonOr hope shall we fall—All things have their season,And Mercy crowns all!Then, doubt not, ye fearful—The Eternal is King—Up, heart, and be cheerful,And lustily sing:—What chariots, what horsesAgainst us shall bideWhile the Stars in their coursesDo fight on our side?

To the Heavens above usO look and beholdThe Planets that love usAll harnessed in gold!What chariots, what horsesAgainst us shall bideWhile the Stars in their coursesDo fight on our side?

All thought, all desires,That are under the sun,Are one with their fires,As we also are one:All matter, all spirit,All fashion, all frame,Receive and inheritTheir strength from the same.

(Oh, man that deniestAll power save thine own,Their power in the highestIs mightily shown.Not less in the lowestThat power is made clear.Oh, man, if thou knowest,What treasure is here!)

Earth quakes in her throesAnd we wonder for why!But the blind planet knowsWhen her ruler is nigh;And, attuned since CreationTo perfect accord,She thrills in her stationAnd yearns to her Lord.

The waters have risen,The springs are unbound—The floods break their prison,And ravin around.No rampart withstands 'em,Their fury will last,Till the Sign that commands 'emSinks low or swings past.

Through abysses unprovenAnd gulfs beyond thought,Our portion is woven,Our burden is brought.Yet They that prepare it,Whose Nature we share,Make us who must bear isWell able to bear.

Though terrors o'ertake usWe'll not be afraid.No power can unmake usSave that which has made.Nor yet beyond reasonOr hope shall we fall—All things have their season,And Mercy crowns all!

Then, doubt not, ye fearful—The Eternal is King—Up, heart, and be cheerful,And lustily sing:—What chariots, what horsesAgainst us shall bideWhile the Stars in their coursesDo fight on our side?

FOOTNOTES:[5]Thebhisti, or water-carrier, attached to regiments in India, is often one of the most devoted of the Queen's servants. He is also appreciated by the men.[6]Bring water swiftly.[7]Tommy Atkins' equivalent for "O Brother!"[8]Speed.[9]Hit you.[10]Water-skin.[11]FromThe Five Nationsby Rudyard Kipling. Copyright by Doubleday, Page & Co. and A. P. Watt & Son.[12]FromRewards and Fairiesby Rudyard Kipling. Copyright by Doubleday, Page and Co. and A. P. Watt & Son.

[5]Thebhisti, or water-carrier, attached to regiments in India, is often one of the most devoted of the Queen's servants. He is also appreciated by the men.

[6]Bring water swiftly.

[7]Tommy Atkins' equivalent for "O Brother!"

[8]Speed.

[9]Hit you.

[10]Water-skin.

[11]FromThe Five Nationsby Rudyard Kipling. Copyright by Doubleday, Page & Co. and A. P. Watt & Son.

[12]FromRewards and Fairiesby Rudyard Kipling. Copyright by Doubleday, Page and Co. and A. P. Watt & Son.

Richard Le Gallienne, who, in spite of his long residence in the United States, must be considered an English poet, was born at Liverpool in 1866. He entered on a business career soon after leaving Liverpool College, but gave up commercial life to become a man of letters after five or six years.

His early work was strongly influenced by the artificialities of the æsthetic movement (see Preface); the indebtedness to Oscar Wilde is especially evident. A little later Keats was the dominant influence, andEnglish Poems(1892) betray how deep were Le Gallienne's admirations. His more recent poems inThe Lonely Dancer(1913) show a keener individuality and a finer lyrical passion. His prose fancies are well known—particularlyThe Book Bills of Narcissusand the charming and high-spirited fantasia,The Quest of the Golden Girl.

Le Gallienne came to America about 1905 and has lived ever since in Rowayton, Conn., and New York City.

Ah, London! London! our delight,Great flower that opens but at night,Great City of the midnight sun,Whose day begins when day is done.Lamp after lamp against the skyOpens a sudden beaming eye,Leaping alight on either hand,The iron lilies of the Strand.Like dragonflies, the hansoms hover,With jeweled eyes, to catch the lover;The streets are full of lights and loves,Soft gowns, and flutter of soiled doves.The human moths about the lightDash and cling close in dazed delight,And burn and laugh, the world and wife,For this is London, this is life!Upon thy petals butterflies,But at thy root, some say, there lies,A world of weeping trodden things,Poor worms that have not eyes or wings.From out corruption of their woeSprings this bright flower that charms us so,Men die and rot deep out of sightTo keep this jungle-flower bright.Paris and London, World-Flowers twainWherewith the World-Tree blooms again,Since Time hath gathered Babylon,And withered Rome still withers on.Sidon and Tyre were such as ye,How bright they shone upon the tree!But Time hath gathered, both are gone,And no man sails to Babylon.

Ah, London! London! our delight,Great flower that opens but at night,Great City of the midnight sun,Whose day begins when day is done.

Lamp after lamp against the skyOpens a sudden beaming eye,Leaping alight on either hand,The iron lilies of the Strand.

Like dragonflies, the hansoms hover,With jeweled eyes, to catch the lover;The streets are full of lights and loves,Soft gowns, and flutter of soiled doves.

The human moths about the lightDash and cling close in dazed delight,And burn and laugh, the world and wife,For this is London, this is life!

Upon thy petals butterflies,But at thy root, some say, there lies,A world of weeping trodden things,Poor worms that have not eyes or wings.

From out corruption of their woeSprings this bright flower that charms us so,Men die and rot deep out of sightTo keep this jungle-flower bright.

Paris and London, World-Flowers twainWherewith the World-Tree blooms again,Since Time hath gathered Babylon,And withered Rome still withers on.

Sidon and Tyre were such as ye,How bright they shone upon the tree!But Time hath gathered, both are gone,And no man sails to Babylon.

One asked of regret,And I made reply:To have held the bird,And let it fly;To have seen the starFor a moment nigh,And lost itThrough a slothful eye;To have plucked the flowerAnd cast it by;To have one only hope—To die.

Born in 1867, Lionel Johnson received a classical education at Oxford, and his poetry is a faithful reflection of his studies in Greek and Latin literatures. Though he allied himself with the modern Irish poets, his Celtic origin is a literary myth; Johnson, having been converted to Catholicism in 1891, became imbued with Catholic and, later, with Irish traditions. His verse, while sometimes strained and over-decorated, is chastely designed, rich and, like that of the Cavalier poets of the seventeenth century, mystically devotional.Poems(1895) contains his best work. Johnson died in 1902.

Go from me: I am one of those who fall.What! hath no cold wind swept your heart at all,In my sad company? Before the end,Go from me, dear my friend!Yours are the victories of light: your feetRest from good toil, where rest is brave and sweet:But after warfare in a mourning gloom,I rest in clouds of doom.Have you not read so, looking in these eyes?Is it the common light of the pure skies,Lights up their shadowy depths? The end is set:Though the end be not yet.When gracious music stirs, and all is bright,And beauty triumphs through a courtly night;When I too joy, a man like other men:Yet, am I like them, then?And in the battle, when the horsemen sweepAgainst a thousand deaths, and fall on sleep:Who ever sought that sudden calm, if ISought not? yet could not die!Seek with thine eyes to pierce this crystal sphere:Canst read a fate there, prosperous and clear?Only the mists, only the weeping clouds,Dimness and airy shrouds.Beneath, what angels are at work? What powersPrepare the secret of the fatal hours?See! the mists tremble, and the clouds are stirred:When comes the calling word?The clouds are breaking from the crystal ball,Breaking and clearing: and I look to fall.When the cold winds and airs of portent sweep,My spirit may have sleep.O rich and sounding voices of the air!Interpreters and prophets of despair:Priests of a fearful sacrament! I come,To make with you mine home.

Go from me: I am one of those who fall.What! hath no cold wind swept your heart at all,In my sad company? Before the end,Go from me, dear my friend!

Yours are the victories of light: your feetRest from good toil, where rest is brave and sweet:But after warfare in a mourning gloom,I rest in clouds of doom.

Have you not read so, looking in these eyes?Is it the common light of the pure skies,Lights up their shadowy depths? The end is set:Though the end be not yet.

When gracious music stirs, and all is bright,And beauty triumphs through a courtly night;When I too joy, a man like other men:Yet, am I like them, then?

And in the battle, when the horsemen sweepAgainst a thousand deaths, and fall on sleep:Who ever sought that sudden calm, if ISought not? yet could not die!

Seek with thine eyes to pierce this crystal sphere:Canst read a fate there, prosperous and clear?Only the mists, only the weeping clouds,Dimness and airy shrouds.

Beneath, what angels are at work? What powersPrepare the secret of the fatal hours?See! the mists tremble, and the clouds are stirred:When comes the calling word?

The clouds are breaking from the crystal ball,Breaking and clearing: and I look to fall.When the cold winds and airs of portent sweep,My spirit may have sleep.

O rich and sounding voices of the air!Interpreters and prophets of despair:Priests of a fearful sacrament! I come,To make with you mine home.

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