James Stephens

Do you dare face the wind now? Such a wind,Bending the hardy cliff-grass all one way,Hurling the breakers in huge battle-playOn these old rocks, whose age leaves Time behind,—The whorls and rockets of the fiery massEre earth was earth—shoots over them the sprayIn furious beauty, then is twisted, wreathed,Dispersed, flung inland, beaten in our face,Until we pant as if we hardly breathedThe common air. See how the billows raceLandward in white-maned squadrons that are shotWith sparks of sunshine.Where they leap in sightFirst, on the clear horizon, they fleck whiteThe blue profundity; then, as clouds shift,Are grey, and umber, and pale amethyst;Then, great green ramparts in the bay uplift,Perfect a moment, ere they break and fallIn fierce white smother on the rocky wall.

The third kind of lyric is perhaps the most interesting, for it points directly to the poet's dramatic gift. It appears quite early in this work; and indeed, a striking example of it is the duologue which gives its name to the author's first book,The Marionettes, published in 1907. It is described in the sub-title asA Puppet Show, and a definition of its form would probably be a dramatic lyric. Yet, although the tragic story is sharply outlined and is told by the voices of husband and wife alternately, the poem is not so dramatic in essence as other pieces which are more strictly lyrical in form, notably "Outside Canossa," in the last book. InThe Marionetteswe see the events of the story as they are reflected in the minds of the interlocutors; as the mood or the thought which they have given rise to. They do not live and move before us in visible action: which is to say, the lyric element predominates. "Outside Canossa," on the other hand, is frankly narrative in form, and has an historical theme. It relates the famous episode of the humiliation of the Emperor Henry IV by Hildebrand, and is necessarily concerned with material that is static in its nature. It must define and describe the scene, announce the antecedents of the story, and throw light upon character. In spite of this, however, the conception of the poemis dramatic; and certain vivid situations have been created. As we read we actually live in this snow-clothed, silent forest world; we stand inside the king's tent as he returns each evening from his bare-foot, bare-headed penance outside Hildebrand's castle gate; and we tremble, with the waiting courtiers, at the fury of outraged pride in his eyes.

Yesterday,Speech leapt from out the King, as leapsA sword-blade, dazzling in the sunFrom out its scabbard; as there leapsFire from the mountain, ere it runDestruction-dealing, far and wide."Rather as Satan damned, I say,Falling through pride, yet keeping pride,Than buy salvation at this price...."

To the enraged King the Queen enters softly, carrying her little son; and though her husband has threatened death to any who should approach him, though he sits with his unsheathed dagger ready to strike, she walks steadily to his side, places the child upon his knee, and goes slowly out without a word.

Through the doorThe King has hurled the dagger, holdsHis son against his breast, and painContorts him, like a smitten oak;Then sets the child upon the floor,And rises, and undoes the claspOf his great mantle (like a stainOf blood it lies about his feet).Next from his head he takes the crown,Holds it arm's-length, and drops it downSuddenly, from his loosened grasp,And for the third time goes he forth,Bare-footed as a penitent,Humble, and excommunicate,To stand all day in falling snowOutside Canossa's guarded gate,Till Hildebrand shall mercy show.

The dramatic sense is clearly operative there. Here is an instinct which perceives the kinetic values of things; which seizes unerringly upon the stuff of drama, and, contemplating a character, an event or a situation, feels it start into life under the touch and sees it move forward and rush to a crisis before the eyes. In the lyrics this quality is often merely latent; but in the plays it has come to full power and has found expression through its own proper medium. It is, of course, the originating impulse of drama as well as the force that shapes it; and if we would take some measure of this creative energy in our poet, we have only to observe that all of his five plays were published in five years, one play to each year. The first,Joan of Arc, appeared in 1909; the last,Belisarius, came outin 1913; the other three,Mary Queen of Scots,Manin, andMarcus Aurelius, belong respectively to the three intervening years. And there is another ready, representing 1914! Moreover, they are all fully developed and of rather elaborate structure. Being poetic and historical drama, perhaps it is natural that they should follow the Shakespearean model, though their dependence on tradition is a curious fact at this time of day.Joan of ArcandMary Queen of Scotsare both of five-act length, and the rest are of four acts. Numerous characters are introduced and a great deal of material is handled: incident is plentiful, situations vary and scenes change with some frequency; while underplot and crossaction bring in interests which are additional to, though subserving, the main theme.

Looking at the work thus, and noting its mass and general character, one is impelled to pay a first tribute to the fertility of the genius from which it springs, and to the strength and staying power of the dramatic impulse which directs it. But we soon find that this is reinforced by other qualities which are almost as remarkable. There is what one may call a comprehensive intelligence, ranging over wide areas and gathering material in many places, but keeping it all strictly under control and constantly striving to relate and unify so much diversity.There is a constructive gift patiently building up, fitting together, organizing and articulating the form of the work. Selection acts persistently; proportion is generally—though not always—true and fine; a noble spirit and a manner at once gracious and dignified give the work distinction.

However, all that is little more than to say—here is a genuine artist working conscientiously in a given medium. It does not go far towards a relative estimate of the work as pure drama. Only a detailed critical analysis could do that adequately; though one may perhaps try to indicate two or three of the prominent features of the plays. Thus inJoan of Arcwe meet at once certain qualities which become in the later plays definitely characteristic. There is, for example, a conception of the theme which stresses the element of spiritual conflict, and draws upon it, as well as upon its human values, for dramatic inspiration. That is a primary fact in all this work; and in four of the five plays it is implied in the very name of the protagonist.Joan,Manin,Marcus AureliusandBelisariusare synonyms for the purest spirituality of which human nature is capable. They suggest, before a page of this poetry has been turned, that the conflict out of which drama always springs is in this case largely a matter of invisible forces—of principles and ideas.And they point to a type of dramatic art which, trending to fine issues, inevitably deals in quiet effects.

There is, in fact, in the extreme grandeur of these four characters, a possible source of weakness to the plays, as actual drama. There is a danger that Joan may be too good a Christian, Marcus Aurelius too austere a stoic, Manin or Belisarius too absolute an idealist, to put up a strenuous fight against destiny. In the final impression of the plays, indeed, one is aware of a vague touch of regret on that very account; and although that may arise from one's own pugnacity, one suspects the existence of a good many other imperfect humans who will share it; from which it may be inferred that the weakness inherent in the subject has not been entirely overcome. I doubt whether it would be possible to overcome it altogether; and by the same token I salute the power which has evoked profoundly moving and stimulating drama out of themes like these.

Again, inJoan of Arc, one may see how the poet uses the human elements of a story to make the stirring scenes through which the spiritual crisis is reached. Thus Joan, in the fundamental struggle of her soul for the soul of France, is brought into external conflict which rounds out the plot withincident. It belongs, of course, to the historical setting of her life, that that conflict is one of actual warfare; but we are bound to admire the art which has placed her as the central figure of those warring factions—the invading English, the army of the Duke of Burgundy, the Church, and Charles the Dauphin. Out of that come the events through which the action proceeds and the incomparable beauty of her character is revealed.

It is the struggle of Joan's enthusiasm with the apathy and indolence of Charles which gives rise to one of the finest scenes in the play. It occurs in Act I, the whole of which is skilfully designed to set the action moving, while indicating so much of the political situation as ought to be known, and the weakness in Charles' character which is the ultimate cause of Joan's downfall. A premonitory note is struck in the opening dialogue. A little story is told by la Tremoille, who is Joan's chief enemy, of how he had just whipped a ragged prophet in the street and caused him to be stoned. It has a double purpose—to introduce Joan, the prophetess of Domrémy, as a subject of conversation; and, by reminding us of her own end, to awaken the sense of tragic irony through which we shall view the subsequent action. The talk turns to Joan, who is awaiting audience; and la Tremoille proposes thetrick of the disguise. Charles agrees to it, and goes out to put on the dress of a courtier, while his absence is filled out by a lively dialogue which glances lightly from point to point of court life. When Charles and his train re-enter and Joan is brought in, the scene rises strongly to its climax. Joan recognizes the Dauphin through his disguise and announces her divine mission—

I do declare to youThat I, no other,—neither duke, nor prince,Nor captain,—no, nor learned gentlemen,But I alone, a girl of Domrémy,—Am sent to save you.

By means of a flexible blank-verse, plain diction, and free and nervous phrasing, dialogue runs with an easy vigour. It is fired by strong and quickly changing emotion—the incredulity of Charles, the base hostility of la Tremoille, the indignation of Joan's friends, or the amazement and curiosity of the courtiers. But for the most part it remains strictly dramatic poetry; that is to say, raised by several degrees above the level of prose, yet closely fitted to personality. When, however, Joan begins to tell about her life, her quiet country home, and the divine command which bade her save her country, the note deepens. The verse becomes lyrical, burning with the mystical passionwhich possesses her—a flame, like the grand simplicity of her own nature, white and intensely clear.

Joan.Sire, it was in the spring; one afternoonWhen I was in a meadow all alone,Lying among the grasses (over headThe scurrying clouds were like a flock of sheep,Chased by a sheep-dog); then, all suddenly,I heard a voice—nay, heard I cannot say,Therewasa voice took hold upon my sense,As if it swallowed up all other soundsIn all the world; the birds, the sheep, the bees,The sound of children calling far away,The rustling of the rushes in the stream,Were only like the cloth, whereon appearsThe gold embroidery, the voice of God.Archbishop.Did you see aught?Joan.Yea, see! Our earthly wordsCannot express divinity, but likeSmall vessels over-filled with generous wine,They leave the surplus wasted. If I say,I saw, or heard, that seems to leave untouchedThe other senses; but indeed, my lords,All of my body seemed transformed to soul.So I should say Isawthe voice of God,Andheardthe light effulgent all around,Nay, heard, and saw, and felt through all of meThe radiance of the message of the Lord.

Archbishop.Did you see aught?

Joan.Yea, see! Our earthly wordsCannot express divinity, but likeSmall vessels over-filled with generous wine,They leave the surplus wasted. If I say,I saw, or heard, that seems to leave untouchedThe other senses; but indeed, my lords,All of my body seemed transformed to soul.So I should say Isawthe voice of God,Andheardthe light effulgent all around,Nay, heard, and saw, and felt through all of meThe radiance of the message of the Lord.

Passages like that bring home to us the poetical character of this drama. True, they may remindus that in such a form of the art action is likely to lag: that its movement may be impeded, as toward the end ofJoan of Arc, by long speeches. On the other hand, they emphasize the peculiar virtue of this kind of drama; the twofold nature of its appeal, and the fact that the two elements are often found concentrated at their highest degree in single scenes of great power. With genius of this type (if genius may be classified in types!), when the dramatic imagination is most vividly alight, it will inevitably kindle poetry of the finest kind.

Thus, in the last act ofMarcus Aurelius, we get the force of the whole drama, and all the incidence of the directly preceding scene moving behind and through the Emperor's speech from which I shall quote. The play has shown the complicity of Faustina in the plot to depose her husband: we know that she is a wanton and a traitress. But Marcus is ignorant of the truth, and generously unsuspecting. After the death of Cassius, the chief conspirator, Marcus orders an officer to bring all the dead man's papers to him. It is necessary to examine them for the names of accomplices. They are brought in while he is chatting with Faustina; and she knows that they contain certain incriminating letters that she had written. Exposure is imminent—disgrace and probable death for her await the opening of the letters. She tries every ruse that a bold and cunning mentality can suggest to prevent her husband from reading them. She seems about to succeed, but her insistence faintly warning Marcus, she fails after all. He takes up the package and goes away to open it quietly in his tent, and Faustina, believing that in a few minutes he will know all her treachery, drinks poison and dies. Unconscious of this catastrophe, the Emperor is sitting alone in his tent, with the package of letters on a table before him.

... Here, beneath my hand,Are laid the hidden hearts of many men.What shall I read therein? Ingratitude,Lies, envy, spite, the barbed and venomous wordOf those that called me Emperor, I called friend;... Break the seal, and readWhich of our subjects, of our intimates,Our friends of many years, are netted here.How thickly fall the shadows in the tent!Almost I fancied, with my tired eyes,I saw Faustina there ... Faustina, you!.....If I should findHername among the friends of Cassius?Ah no, Faustina, not such perfidy!The gods must blush at it! Am I grown greyAnd learnt no wisdom? Though it should be so—Though yet it cannot be—what's that to me?AmIwronged by it? Yet it cannot be,With that frank brow. I've loved you faithfully;It could not be so....... I will not knowMore than I must of unprofitable things,Lest they should, in the garden of my soul,Nourish rank weeds of hate and bitterness;I will not hate that which I cannot change.

.....

If I should findHername among the friends of Cassius?Ah no, Faustina, not such perfidy!The gods must blush at it! Am I grown greyAnd learnt no wisdom? Though it should be so—Though yet it cannot be—what's that to me?AmIwronged by it? Yet it cannot be,With that frank brow. I've loved you faithfully;It could not be so....... I will not knowMore than I must of unprofitable things,Lest they should, in the garden of my soul,Nourish rank weeds of hate and bitterness;I will not hate that which I cannot change.

(He drops the papers into a tripod.)

Burn! Go into oblivion! The godsPermit themselves to pity good and bad,Giving to each the sunshine and sweet rain,And hiding all things in the mist of years.May I not do as gods do? Burn away,Consume all hate and evil into smoke!I will not know of them; assuredlyFor me such ills exist not——

(The body of Faustina is brought in.)

The same combination of dramatic elements will be found in the crucial scenes ofManinandBelisarius. InManinit is especially notable, because of the curious nature of the crisis. This would seem, on the face of it, almost calculated to inhibit the dramatic impulse: to tend to negative the dynamic properties of character and circumstance. Manin, the defender of Venice, has held his city against the Austrian enemy by sheer force ofcharacter. His courage and confidence and determination have heartened the Venetians to continue their resistance; and his statesmanship has been diligent in trying to secure the intervention of France or England, or military aid from Kossuth. But help is refused from every quarter; the garrison is small and weak; the people are starving, and ravaged by disease. Nevertheless, inspired by their leader, they are willing and eager to resist to the end, although they know that this must bring on them the hideous penalties with which the Austrians notoriously punished that kind of patriotism.

The crux of the drama lies in the problem thus presented to Manin. It is essentially a spiritual struggle: between wisdom on the one hand and patriotic ardour on the other; between foresight and courage; between the long, weary, unattractive processes that make for life and the blind impetuosity that makes for death; between, in his personal career, a prospect of humiliation in exile and the glory of a hero's end. Given the character of Manin, victory in the conflict was bound to lie with reason against passion, with sagacity against recklessness; but the victory in this case meant defeat—physical and apparently moral. It would mean to the world, and even to his own people, that, with the surrender of the town, he yieldedup the very principles for which he stood. Therein, of course, lies the unusual nature of this crisis. The dramatic instinct has somehow to vitalize a dead weight of failure. To see how that is done—and itisdone, finely—one must turn to the scene in Act III, which is the core of the play. There the poet creates an external conflict between Manin and the people which embodies, as it were, the spiritual struggle; and, translating it into action, visibly reveals Manin as a conqueror. Quotations hardly do justice to the poet here, but there are two speeches, one before and one after Manin has won the people to the proposed surrender, which indicate the skill of the art at this point.

The first expresses the agony of failure in Manin's mind, resulting from his decision to yield to the enemy. It is in answer to his faithful friend and secretary, Pezzato, who has been trying to comfort him with a prediction that the freedom of their city and their land is only deferred, that it must ultimately come. Manin replies:

I shall not see it.I shall be blind beneath my coffin lidThere in a foreign land; I shall not seeThe glory and the splendour of St. Mark'sWhen our Italian flag salutes the sun;I shall be deaf, and never hear the pealOf our triumphant bells, and volleying guns;I shall be dumb, I shall be dumb that day,And never say "My people, for this hourI saved you when I sacrificed you most."

The second passage burns with the fire of triumph, tragical but prophetic, which has been kindled in Manin by his struggle with the opposing will of the people and his victory over it:

Of this one thing be sure. A little time,A little hour, in the span of yearsThat history devours, we submitTo bow before the flail of tyranny;Ay, it may strike us down, and we may dieWith Europe passive round our Calvary;Yet that for which we stand, for liberty,For equal justice, and the right of lawsPurely administered, can never die,Being of the nature of eternity;Nor all the blood that Austria has shedMar the indelibility of truth;Nor all the graves that Austria has dugBury it deep enough; nor all the liesThat coward hearts have bandied to and fro,And coward hearts received to trick themselves,Smother the face of it.

There remains to be particularly noted the poet's gift of realizing character. It is seen at its best inMary Queen of Scots, where the unfortunate Queen is very strikingly recreated. Out of the diverseand stormy elements of her nature she is made to live again with a clear unity and completeness which are amazing. That is largely the reason why this play is the most powerful of the five, from the point of view of pure drama. Its theme is unerringly chosen, for drama inheres in Mary's being. The seeds of tragedy lurk in her contrasted weakness and strength, excess and defect, nobility and baseness. And, because she has been so brilliantly studied, this play moves at every step to the majestic truth that character is destiny.

The broad lines of Mary's personality are established in the first act, revealing at once the springs of action. The sensuous basis of her nature, her strong will and quick temper, may be seen to set in motion the forces which will presently overwhelm her. Her widowed state is irksome—therefore she will marry. She hates authority—therefore she will make her own choice in the matter of a husband. And finer threads already begin to complicate the issues. She is really fond of Darnley, the weak youth whom she is determined to marry; but that motive is intricately mixed with the satisfaction of insulting Elizabeth through him; while her ready wit gives a spice to her malice which, in dialogue at least, is very refreshing. When she enters the audience-chamber she callsDarnley to her side and, with a gesture towards the gloomy faces of the disaffected nobles, says in merry mockery:

... look you thereOn these good gentlemen, all friends of ours,The earls of Morton, Ruthven, and Argyll:For friends they are—upon their countenanceWe see it written.

She turns to the English ambassador:

... Here's Sir Nicholas.What news of our dear cousin? Has she comeAt last to give that virgin heart awayInto another's keeping, that brave Archduke,Who'd bite your hand, they say, as soon as kiss it—Such manners are in Austria—or Charles,My dear French brother, who is well enough,And only fourteen years her junior?Not yet the happy moment? Patience, then,Another day you'll have that news for us.

Sir Nicholas states formally Elizabeth's objections to Darnley, who interjects:

By my beard!Mary.No! No!Not by your beard, dear Henry, or your oathIs emptier than a prince's promises—Some princes we have heard of, we would say,Though cannot think it truth. Nay, let me hearWhat is it that my sister Princess willsOut of the largeness of her heart for me?

By my beard!

Mary.No! No!Not by your beard, dear Henry, or your oathIs emptier than a prince's promises—Some princes we have heard of, we would say,Though cannot think it truth. Nay, let me hearWhat is it that my sister Princess willsOut of the largeness of her heart for me?

The complexity of Mary's character is well brought out. There is, for instance, the little scene with Mary Beaton at the beginning of Act II. Here the Queen, discovering Darnley's infidelity, passes rapidly through half a dozen moods—from satirical bitterness to a fury of pride, and then to tears in which humiliation, gratitude, and tenderness are mingled. Mary Beaton has just said that the people pity their Queen:

Mary.... On my life,I'll not be pitied: pity is a chafeOn open wounds of pride. To pity meMakes me a beggar—dare you pity me?Beaton.Sweet lady, I would not, but must perforce!Mary.Nay, would you have me weep? What thing am IThat three soft words should drive the tear drops forthLike floods in winter? Nay, nay, good my girl,This is my body's weakness, not my soul's.

Mary.... On my life,I'll not be pitied: pity is a chafeOn open wounds of pride. To pity meMakes me a beggar—dare you pity me?

Beaton.Sweet lady, I would not, but must perforce!

Mary.Nay, would you have me weep? What thing am IThat three soft words should drive the tear drops forthLike floods in winter? Nay, nay, good my girl,This is my body's weakness, not my soul's.

The gentleness of that gives place at the entrance of Darnley to intense scorn, changing to indignation when he compels her to answer him, and to provocative coquetry at his insult to Rizzio. In the second scene of this act a new aspect of her mentality develops. The action here, dramatically splendid in its speed and emotion, grows out of Mary's recklessness, and proceeds directly, through thejealousy of Darnley, to Rizzio's murder and Mary's secret plot to avenge him. It would seem, in the astonishing duplexity of her nature, that there could be nothing more to reveal; yet the profounder forces of it only begin to be operative from this point. Bothwell, as she designs the scheme, is to be merely the tool of her shrewd intelligence. But she is betrayed by the force of her own passion, which transforms Bothwell into the means of her destruction. The finest achievement of this portrayal is that which shows the Queen conscious of her infatuation, and perceiving the tragedy which it is preparing, but incapable of stemming the flood that is carrying her away. Intelligence remains acute: reason holds as clear a light to consequence as ever it did, but both are ineffectual against the storm of instinct. Here is a passage from the end of Act III in which Bothwell after a rebuff has protested his love for the Queen:

Mary.Nay, swear not; nay, I know you what you are—Hotter than flame in your desires; false—Falser than water.Bothwell(embracing her). Be a salamander,To live for ever in the midst of fire.Mary.Oh, Bothwell! Oh, my love! I am bewitchedTo love you so. You are a deadly poisonThat's crept through all my veins; you are the North,And I the needle; I must turn to youFrom every quarter of the hemispheres.... I am yoursUtterly, wholly; when I walk abroad,Jewelled and brocaded, I feel all men's eyesCan see me naked, and, from head to foot,Branded in red-hot letters with your name.Bothwell.This is indeed love!Mary.You may call it so!It is not that which most men mean by love—A moment's idle fancy. No, this loveIs like a dragon, laying waste the landOf all my life; it is a deadly sickness,Of which we both shall die; it is a sin,Of which we both are damned, the saints of GodNot finding mercy; there's no pleasure in it,But dust in the mouth and saltness in the eyes.

Mary.Nay, swear not; nay, I know you what you are—Hotter than flame in your desires; false—Falser than water.

Bothwell(embracing her). Be a salamander,To live for ever in the midst of fire.

Mary.Oh, Bothwell! Oh, my love! I am bewitchedTo love you so. You are a deadly poisonThat's crept through all my veins; you are the North,And I the needle; I must turn to youFrom every quarter of the hemispheres.... I am yoursUtterly, wholly; when I walk abroad,Jewelled and brocaded, I feel all men's eyesCan see me naked, and, from head to foot,Branded in red-hot letters with your name.

Bothwell.This is indeed love!

Mary.You may call it so!It is not that which most men mean by love—A moment's idle fancy. No, this loveIs like a dragon, laying waste the landOf all my life; it is a deadly sickness,Of which we both shall die; it is a sin,Of which we both are damned, the saints of GodNot finding mercy; there's no pleasure in it,But dust in the mouth and saltness in the eyes.

One would like to indicate further the truth with which the character is studied through the last two acts, providing the material as it does for scenes of great power and range of effect. Particularly one would wish to convey some idea of the scene of the final tragedy, broadly conceived against a background of the angry Edinburgh populace, and throbbing with the defiance of the Queen. Psychological imagination here is no less than brilliant, and one could cull perhaps half a dozen passages to illustrate it. But a single extract must suffice; and that is chosen for the additionalreason that its closing sentences contain the very root of the tragedy. It is from Act IV, and the scene, following upon Mary's marriage to Bothwell, is designed to show her last desperate struggle against him and against herself. Already she is remorseful, disillusioned, and bitter; she knows the marriage to be hateful to her people, and she has found Bothwell cruel and treacherous. Before the nobles, who are assembled to receive them, she taunts Bothwell that he is not royal; flouts him for Arthur Erskine; declares that she will never wear jewels again; and at last provokes from Bothwell angry abuse and threats of violence. The nobles interpose to protect her, and beg her to let them save her from him. It needs but one word of assent to be rid of him for ever. She is almost won; she takes a few steps towards them, and actually gives her hand to one of them. Then she hesitates, turns, and looks at her husband:—

Mary.I am yours, Bothwell.Bothwell.Will you go with me?Mary.Ay, to the world's end, in my petticoat.Bothwell.Let go her hands, my lord.Morton.Ay, let them go,And lethergo, for naught can save her now.Not ours the fault.Mary.Not yours, nor his, nor mine.'Tis not the fault of floods to drown, nor fireTo burn and shrivel—no, nor beasts to bite,Nor frosts to kill the flowers—not the fault,Only the property. There's something hereThat's stronger than our wishes and our wills.There is no going back; our course is laid,And we must keep it, though it lead to death.Good-bye, my lords. My husband, let us go.

Mary.I am yours, Bothwell.

Bothwell.Will you go with me?

Mary.Ay, to the world's end, in my petticoat.

Bothwell.Let go her hands, my lord.

Morton.Ay, let them go,And lethergo, for naught can save her now.Not ours the fault.

Mary.Not yours, nor his, nor mine.'Tis not the fault of floods to drown, nor fireTo burn and shrivel—no, nor beasts to bite,Nor frosts to kill the flowers—not the fault,Only the property. There's something hereThat's stronger than our wishes and our wills.There is no going back; our course is laid,And we must keep it, though it lead to death.Good-bye, my lords. My husband, let us go.

One does not put a poet like Mr Stephens into a group—it cannot be done. If you try to do it, weakly yielding a wise instinct to mere intelligence, one of two things will happen. You will return to your careful group the moment after you thought you had made it, to find either that Mr Stephens has vanished or that the others have. Either he has broken away from the ridiculous frail links which bound him, and is already disappearing on the horizon with a gleeful shout, or his unfortunate companions have vanished before so much exuberance.

That is why this poet was not included in the Irish chapter where, if the thing were possible at all, one would have hoped to catch him. There are many fine racial strands out of which you would think a net could be woven. They appear to enmesh an Irishman and an Irish poet. We think we recognize that eye, critical and appreciative, for a woman—or a horse. We believe we know that wit, with a touch of satire and another touch of merry malice. We are surely not mistaken in that adoration of beauty and its converse hatred of ugliness; while we have no doubt whatever about that passion for liberty.

But the true poet will transcend his nation, as he does his manhood, at times of purest inspiration; and Mr Stephens has those happy seasons—happy, surely, for those to whom he sings, though, doubtless, each with its own agony to him. In many of the slighter poems, however, all of them good and most of them quite beautiful, the signs of nationality are obvious. They are comically clear, in fact, proceeding as they do directly from the quick, keen perception of the Comic Spirit itself. Only a blessed simpleton whose name was Patsy, could see the angel who walks along the sky sowing the poppyseed. The word 'Sootherer' sounds like English; and indeed individuals of the species are not unknown in this country. But they, like the word, are native to the land of the born lover. Has anybody heard of a Saxon who could fit names like these to his sweetheart—Little Joy, Sweet Laughter, Shy Little Gay Sprite? or who could woo her with such a ripple of flattery—

... You are more sweetly newThan a May moon: you are my store,My secret and my treasure and the pulseOf my heart's core.

But, on the other hand, no mere English boy could hope to match the glib rage of spite in this disappointed youth—

You'll go—then listen, you are just a pig,A little wrinkled pig out of a sty;Your legs are crooked and your nose is big,You've got no calves, you have a silly eye,I don't know why I stopped to talk to you,I hope you'll die.

Again, no Jack Robinson, though the dull smother that he would call his imagination were fired by plentiful beer, could ever have conceived of "What Tomas an Buile Said in a Pub"; or could have accompanied Mac Dhoul on his impish adventure into heaven, to be twitched off God's throne by a hand as large as a sky, and sent spinning through the planets—

Scraping old moons and twisting heels and headA chuckle in the void....

These outward marks are unmistakable; and so, too, are certain qualities in the essence and texture of the work. His lyric moods may be as tender and fanciful, though always more spontaneous, than those of Mr Yeats. And one may find the arrowy truth, the rich earthiness and the profound sense of tragedy of a Synge. But the filmy threads which seem to stretch between Mr Stephens and his compatriots have no strength to bind him. They are, indeed, only visible when he is ranging at some altitude that is lower than his highest reach.When he soars to the zenith, as in "The Lonely God" and "A Prelude and a Song," their tenuity snaps. He has gone beyond what is merely national and simply human; and has become just a Voice for the Spirit of Poetry.

Nevertheless the affinities of this poet with what is best in modern Irish literature would make a fascinating study. Foremost, of course, there is imagination. You will find in him the true Hibernian blend of grotesquerie and grandeur, pure fantasy and shining vision. But each of these things is here raised to a power which makes it notable in itself, while all of them may sometimes be found in astonishing combination in a single poem. In the book calledInsurrections, which is dated 1909, and appears to represent Mr Stephens' earliest efforts in verse, there is the piece which I have already named, "What Tomas an Buile Said in a Pub." Already we may see this complex quality at work. Tomas is protesting that he saw God; and that God was angry with the world.

His beard swung on a wind far out of sightBehind the world's curve, and there was lightMost fearful from His forehead ........He lifted up His hand—I say He heaved a dreadful handOver the spinning Earth, then I said "Stay,You must not strike it, God; I'm in the way;And I will never move from where I stand."He said "Dear child, I feared that you were dead,"And stayed His hand.

His beard swung on a wind far out of sightBehind the world's curve, and there was lightMost fearful from His forehead ...

.....

He lifted up His hand—I say He heaved a dreadful handOver the spinning Earth, then I said "Stay,You must not strike it, God; I'm in the way;And I will never move from where I stand."He said "Dear child, I feared that you were dead,"And stayed His hand.

You will see—a significant fact—that there is no nonsense about a dream or a transcendent waking apparition. In the opening lines Tomas says, with anxious emphasis, that he saw the 'Almighty Man'—and that is symbolical. It has its relation to the mellow tenderness with which the poem closes; but apart from that it is a sign of the way in which the creative energy always works in this poetry. It seizes upon concrete stuff; and that is fused, hammered and moulded into shapes so sharp and clear that we feel we could actually touch them as they spring up in our mental vision. This is not peculiar to Mr Stephens, of course. It would seem to be common to every poet—though to be sure they are not many—in whom sheer imagination, the first and last poetic gift, is preeminent. Mr Stephens has many other qualities, which give his work depth, variety and significance; but fine as they are, they take a secondary place beside this ardent, plastic power.

We quickly see, even in the early poem from which I have quoted, the mixed elements of this gift. Nowthe grotesquerie which seems to lie in the fact that Tomas tells about the majesty and familiar kindliness of God 'in a pub,' may be apparent only. It probably arises from one's own sophistication and painful respectability. We have lost the simplicity which would make it possible to talk about such a subject at all; and as for doing it in a pub...!

Yet there is something truly grotesque in this work. That is to say, there is a juxtaposition of ideas so violently contrasted that they would provoke instant mirth if it were not for the grave intensity of vision. Sometimes, indeed, they are frankly absurd. We are meant to laugh at them, as we do at Mac Dhoul, squirming with merriment on God's throne with the angels frozen in astonishment round him. But generally these extraordinary images are presented seriously, and often they are winged straight from the heart of the poet's philosophy. Then, the driving power of emotion and a passion of sincerity carry us safely over what seems to be their amazing irreverence. There is, for instance, in the piece called "The Fulness of Time," a complete philosophic conception of good and evil, boldly caught into sacred symbolism. The poet tells here how he found Satan, old and haggard, sitting on a rusty throne in a distant star.All his work was done; and God came to call him to Paradise.

Gabriel without a frown,Uriel without a spear,Raphael came singing downWelcoming their ancient peer,And they seated him besideOne who had been crucified.

It is not irreverence, of course, but the audacity of poetic innocence. Only an imagination pure of convention and ceremonial would dare so greatly. And the remarkable thing is that this naîveté is intimately blended with a grandeur which sometimes rises to the sublime. The noblest and most complete expression of that is in "The Lonely God." That is probably the reason why this poem is the finest thing that Mr Stephens has done—that, and the magnitude of its central idea. There is, indeed, the closest relation here between the thought and the imagery in which it is made visible. But, keeping our curious, impertinent gaze fixed for the moment on the changing form of the imaginative essence of the work, let us take first the opening lines of the poem:

So Eden was deserted, and at eveInto the quiet place God came to grieve.His face was sad, His hands hung slackly downAlong his robe ...... All the birds had goneOut to the world, and singing was not oneTo cheer the lonely God out of His grief—

There follow several stanzas of exquisite reverie as the majestic figure paces sadly in Adam's silent garden and pauses before the little hut

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