BOOKS OF THE DAY

Dominion, Volume 11, Issue 46, 17 November 1917, Page 11

BOOKS OF THE DAY

SONGS OF A CAMPAIGN

Much fino verse has beea producfld during the war. Every side nud phase of war has inspired the war poets, its tragedy and its comeily alike, and the all-round literary excellence of the poetry has often boen a source of surprise, it is safo to say, however, that iu technical skill, in dignity of thought and eloquence of expression, few of tho young men who have written of war from first hand knowledgo have equalled a young South Australian, Mr. Leon Gollert, tho third edition of whose "Songs of a Campaign" reaches- me from the publishers, Messrs. Angus and Kobertson, Sydney (per Messrs. S. and W. Mackay, Wellington). Mr. Gollert sees mainly the pathetic, the dramatic, tho tragic sido of war. That, after all, and not ths comedy of war, is the most insistent of war's aspects. His realism is never, however, more brutality. He writes more of moods rather than deeds. His book might bo described as a soldier poet's impressions of tho sterner side of tho great conflict as he witnessed it in Egypt and at Gallipoli. His themes tre generally simplo enough, but they are great in their very simplicity. Ho never overelaborates, over-colonrs, or seeks cheap dramatic effect at tho expense of truth or good taste. Also, of Lis downs great pitifulness. The ugly, the E % not avoided, but there is always fu underlying suggestion.of intense tondThf spirit of comradeship, that tried, true and trusty comradeship of tho sola\*t' "mates" which comes as a blessing to tko men amidst scenes of danger and anffering ndescnbable, finds a mth&y beautiful exposition in tho C'3d "One Who D.od-w Memory of E.W.T.S.": Mothers Knees'eto'ped, I sat and thought, unheed-

The in u-ecT'the winds, the streets oamo Tho tanAtSr ofnis oyes, his homo ato Thei mSmory of his hopes, his buoyancy. HlbiS, bis jests, his moods of ThetuSS of his speech, his favourAnd uiis-ana this the end so pitiless l' Me man we knew! Tho. man wo knew

-To dio-bfdead-not movc,-and this was

' I ros C e and oiled my riflo mußinely. "The Last to Leave" is an oloquentlyT/ordod tribute to tho noble fellows w h» foSt-M and now sleep m peace on tho blood-stained slopes ot Gal"What of these?

"These long-forgotten dead with sunken Their only mourners are the moaning

TkoTr aV only minstrels are the singing And thus''l mused and sorrowed wistfully I wXied the place where they had scaled the height, wtterlv Tho height whereon they bled so bitterly nirouehout each day and through each blistered night.

I sat there long, and listencd-all things I of a thousand toes; A thousand waves I heard, and then 1

Ttewaws wore very old, the trees were Tho W de°ad would be remembered evermore "lie valiant dead that gazed upon the

And slopt'in great battalions by the shore. Another poem, "Before Action," reflects the strango feeling of relief which comes to mon who are awaiting the all-moment-ous order to advance: always had to do our work at right, I wondered why we liad to bo so sly. I wondered why we couldnt have our fight ' Uuder the open sky. X wondered I always felt so cold, 1 wondered why the orders seemed so So so whisperingly told, So whisperingly low. I wondered if my .paoking-straps were tight, And wondered why I wondered. . . . Sound went wild. ... An order came ... I ran into the night. Wondering why I Bmiled. As an example of Mr. Gcllcrt's power of pathetic, poignant realism, I quote a short poem entitled "The Jester in the Trench": "That just reminds me of a yarn," he (aid, And everybody turned to hear his tale. He had a thousand yarns inside his head. They waited for him, ready with their mirth And creeping smiles—then suddenly turned pale, Grow still, and'gazed upon the earth. They heard no talc. No further word was Baid. And with his untold fun, Half leaning on his gun, They left him—dead. Surely the awful and merciful suddenness of death, as it cornea to so many a brave lad, could not have been suggested with more telling directness. There are some exquisitely pathetic verses in the section entitled "fjongs of the Sick." Several of them were written in hospitals or on hospital ships. Here, for instance, is a touching picture, "The Blind Man"—alas, all too familiar in these times: Within a corner of this windowed room He sits, and seldom speaks, and seldommoves. Forever left within eternal gloom. He thinks of those ho left, and those ho loves. The clouds were his, the colours of the day, The purple mists, the deepest shades of blue, The yellow Bamos, the stars, tho milky way, And smiles, and frowns, and stretching moonlight, too. He knew the sun upon tho Eastern sea, And watched it set behind a Western •hill, Be saw the depth of waters—space—tho free Ascent of birds. All these he knew until The bursting shell! And now. as life is long, He sits alone, and whistles some old song. As a relief from the stark tragedy which is rellectcd, as needs must bo in a volume of war poems, in so many of tliu verses I welcome a delightful sonnet "A Book of Wordsworth" (written in a hospital at Malta): Thy talks on God, and glories of Ills fields Are woven into my unworthy past, Tho fragments of thy thoughts my memory yields, Grow dim at times, and yet they seem! to last. This little book of verses, covered red, A gift to me, a gift of quiet rest, Is filled with soothing words that thou hast said: Somo chosen thoughts, tho wisest and the best— Sweet songs and gleanings from that inward eye: The noise of bees,' tho wind in daffodils; The splendour of the sea and of the sky; And Nature standing on tho silent huls. Thy words, thy thoughts, for mo can never cease To havo that flavour of' eternal poaco. Mr. Norman Lindsay contributes sixteen full-page illustrations. They display the artist's quite marvellous mastery of black and white drawing. They are terribly dramatic, although here and there thoy soom to be unnecessarily brutal. As cartoons in the "Bulletin" they would bo admirable, but hero their effect sometimes jars. Mr. Gellert's bcok should havo a largo sale in New Zealand, as it has already had in Australia. It is in every way a brilliant contribution to Australian literature. (I'rice, 45.)

The Story of the Teeth. In "Tho Story of tho Teeth and How to Savo Them" (Whitcombe and Tombs), Dr. Truby King, so widely known for tlio special interest ho takes in tho question of infantile health and how best io secure healthy and vigorous childhood, deals exhaustively, and yet in the simplest possible phraseology, with the care and preservation of the child's teeth. He 6hows parents "where and how tho teeth originate, how they are born, what they are fed on, h<\w they may be poisoned, how they should grow from their infancy to full Maturity, what are their rights, what treatment they are entitled to, what friends they have, what foes they may meet, and how they may be cut off prematurely .'in early life or livo to a good old age." The wiso and essentially practical counsel given to parents by the author should be of great value to the community, and the booklet, which costs but sixpence, and is issued by the Royal New Zealand Society for the Health of Women and Children, should have a wide circulation.