POETRY OF THE GREAT WAR.

Pukekohe & Waiuku Times, Volume 5, Issue 175, 19 May 1916, Page 2 (Supplement)

POETRY OF THE GREAT WAR.

There has been mucli disappointment expressed in literary oircles that our British poets have not risen to the occasion in the way of expressing in poetry their feelings—the leelings of the natioi —in reference to the great war. Richard le Gallienne writes an interesting article upon this 'subject in "MunseyV for January, and we are indebted" t oli'm for the following extracts made from that article. The author points out that the most striking expressions have come from those who are not looked upon as great poets, but who are more appreciated for their prose and that of humorous vein. M. le G#Jl:enne considers that the two best expressions are theme of, firstly, Mr Barry Pain in his scathing poem on "The Kaiser and God," which reads as follows: —

Kaiser, when you'd kneel in prayer, Look upon your hands, and there Let that deep and awful stain From the blood of children slain Burn your very soul with shame Till you dare not breathe that Name That now you glibly advertise — God, as one of your Allies.

Impious braggart, you forget, God is not your conscript yet; You shall learn in dumb amaze, That His ways are not your ways, That the mire through which you

trod Is not the high white road of God — To Whom, whichever way the con-

flict rolls, We, lighting to the end, commend our souls.

The other is Sir Owen Seaman, the Editor of "Punch," :u Mich lines as these:—

To go our quiet ways, subdued and sane; To hush all vulgar clamour of the street; With level calm to face alike the strain Of triumph or defeat — Tliis bo our part, for so we serve you best, So best confirm their prowess and their pride, Your warrior sons, to whom in this high test, Our fortunes we confide.

That masterly denunciation of Abdul Hamid, in which with such superb rhetoric Mr William Watson consigned the late Sultan of Turkey ta perdition, has something of an echo in his fine sonnot "To the TrotiWcr of the World" :-

At last we know you, war-lord; you that flung The gauntlet down, flung down the mask you wore, Publish your heart, and let its pent hate pour, You that had God for ever on your tongue. We are old in war, and if in guile we are young, Yours also is the spirit that evermore Burns in our bosom even as heretofore. Jfor are these thews unbraced, these nerves unstrung. We do not with God's name wanton play: Wo are not on such easy terms with Heaven; But in earth's hearing we can verily say: "Our hands arc pure: for peace, for peace we have striven"; And not by earth shall he be soon forgiven Who lit the lire accurst that flames today.

la his "For All We Have and Are," Mr Kipling can hardly he said to have risen to the height of his great argument. It rends more like the skeleton or a fine poem than a living utterance. The idea is there, the seriousness of the mood, but the vitalising breath—- " the word of the Lord"—is missing:

for all we have and are, For all our children's fate, Stand up and meet the war— The Hun is at the gate! Our world has passed away, In wantonness o'erthrown; There is nothing left to-day But steel and fire and stone.

Though all we knew depart, The old commandments stand: '"ln courage keep your heart, In strength lift up your hand."

Tt is good, sober, earnest, but the sobriety has got the better of the earnestness, and the solemn call of "The Recessional" its missing from the inanimate rhythm. One sighs for the breath of the fervor witli which Swinburne was wont to animate such themes —as in his "Songs Before Sunrise":

The trumpets of the four winds of the world, From the ends of the earth blow Battle.

For such soul-animating strains wo socle in vain through all the voluble o: tput of the modern British war poets. S-'irelv that breath is not in the painfu!ly" flat "Wake up, England," of England's Poct-Lauroat", Mr Robert Bridges :

Thou careless, awake! Thou peacemaker, fight! Stand England for honour, And God guard the right.

One need not be a sound sleeper to remain unaroused by ?o meek a reveille. Y t, of course. Mr. Brdiges—need one h.iy —is a very line poet on his own ground. National poety is not his UK-tier —that is all. Aiming at simplify, ike many another, he merely achieves baldness. Nor have any of ti..' other peats bearing more or less r.\ il-knnwn names —Thomas Hardy, Henry Ntwbolt, Allied Noyos, Kabiiid!;.nath Tagoro, Laurence Binyon—b n mure happily inspired. Of all t!i. .-.e, Mr BTnyon'rf "To Women*' has u.o-t of the accent of le.i'.ity : For you, yon too to battle <j,o. Not with the niurchmg drums nod cheers, But in the watch i f -olitudc And through the boundless night of fears. . . . And not a shot comes blind with death, And not a stab «,;' -teo| s pro-sod Home, but invit'l-'.v it lure And entered first .1 woman's breast.

Mr Eden Plullpot'-. in hi-; "(iorminin," iritis (?xpn--:oji to a temperate view of the stPiu_ie, which msiiiy ■of us, enm-inhering v ;> ri,,:niy's srrc.it g : ft. to tin- human spirt, would I'tun enti riui.n :

Re- :oon l-.rr. v.o:ld! !.<>; mu-'ad sealpi ]> bright F'.-sh in her .-ore-: v.:<u .11 thv hitter

might, So thai their ::.-!. r C ,'. clean the cur- ■! ' foul

!;.t thai doth

If r -pirit, tint and c'mP-c h"r 'auay

And give her 1.e.; t ; p, :if o. -ed of devils r.'.v., i ."1 >\ iili her ivoen,

R'-e wound- the world ar. 1 turns her friend- io foe--: T'.ut ca.-i her d \ !s d.e.vn. And oioken. hum!. 1 -!, c-.;i!'it-, healed and saic, ,

Oh! may she shine her glorious self again— Pearl in Europa's crown.

Again the Irish mystic "A.E." and Mr Arthur St. John Adcock strike the note of the future in denouncing all war as a recrudescence of the brute in man. The following is from the former's " Gods of War" :

How wanes thine empire, Prince of

Peace! With the fleet circling of the suns The ancient gods their power increase; Lo! how Thine own anointed ones Do your upon the warring bands The devil's blessings from their hands.

And these stanzas from Mr Adcock's " Hvmn After Battle" :

Now, we were best be mute and raise No blasphemy of boastful praise, Scatter no incense in the air; Nor lilt our reddened hands in prayer, Hut dig the earth our steps defame, And lnde the trophies of our shame.

Silence the braggart lips that call The brute that slumbers in us all Back to the ravening triumph foul Of rending claws and bloody jowl— Lest we forget the heights sublime, And lapse into our ancient slime.

The writer quotes from Mrs Ella Wheeler Wilcox the spirited "credo" entitled "Neutral": —

That pale word "neutral" sits becomingly On lips of weaklings, but the men whose brains Find fuel in their blood, the men whose minds Hold sympathetic converse with their hearts, Such men are never neutral. The word stands Unsexed and impotent in realms of speech. When mighty problems face a startled world No virile man is neutral. Right cr wrong. His thoughts go forth, assertive, unafraid, To stand by his convictions, and to do Their part in shaping issues to an end. Silence may guard the door of useless words, At dictate of discretion ; but to stand Without opinions m a world which needs Constructive thinking, is a coward's part.

Further quotations are made from Chappell's "The Day," Lissauer's "Hymn of Hate" ("a piece of national hysteria"), and M. Jules de Marthold's answer thereto, already published by us. The writer comments appreciatively on the Comptesse de Noailles' poem expressive of the soul of Fiance, entitled "The Soldiers of France," from which the following excerpt is presented .

Thou to whom fate denies A death so fair, be comforted. . I bid

Thee now Lay gently in my heart's deep wound thy brow, And feel how in this torn, ensanguined

heart Hate is a little thing, love so much

more. I killed, yet was not cruel. The banner of love Was over all our battle; we claimed our part In fashioning time to be a heritage Of liberty, hope, honor, human pride. "Never," we said, "barbarian kings

shall ride Into that promised land; the obscene

rage Of servile hordes shall trample it, crucify Pitv and peace. We will not be denied. We are railed :we go—on to the heights

above! Heights where the heart touches infinity."

Italy has found dignified utterance through the impassioned lips of Cabriole d'Annunzio in his "Prase of ftnlv"; hut so far, the writer opines it is from Belgium, m the person of Emile Cammaerts, that the truest poetrv inspired by the war lias come. The following is a translation of a fine theme entitled "The Blind Man and H:s Son" :

'•The distant boom of angry guns No longer fills my ear; Oh! whither have we fled, my son? Tell me. that I may hear." "Father, we are in England!"

"No more 1 hear the stormy wind "ere the rigging roar; I feel beneath my tottering feet The firm ground of the shore. Is this the end of a'l our f woes? Shall we not surfer more?" "Father, we arc in England!"

"I hear the sound of kindly speech, But do not understand; ] feel I've wandered very far, Far from the Fatherland. How comes it that these tones arc not Those of an unknown land?" "Father, we are in England!"

•'Bend down thy knees, my son. And take into thy wounded hand and mine, somewhat Of the earth of this good land, That, dreaming of our home, we two Mav'ki-e the soil of England."

Also his address "To the Great King of a Small Country" (Belgium) :

God protect you, our protector: You, our shield, sire, may He shield; King of Furnes, the soldiers' monarch, Kins who ponied his pledge to yield; King of but a score of steeples, King of acres—few there be; Pride and glory of our homeland, Warden of Humanity!

Wheresoever you will to lead us We will come full fain; If you bid us shed our lifcblood, Sire, 'tis vours to dra'n.

M. Canimnerts' poems have been published in hook-form, and the profits i'rom sell ng copies are dedicated to the purchase of tobacco for the Belgian soldier-. M. ('e.nmi.iert.s expresses himself in tins i cimlf as follows:

Miinv a secret lies herein That' should not b- told. Miny a whimpered foolishness, .T.iiiv a tlmm that to confess Mi-ht lie overbold.

tT.vein Ins [i!.V naked heart, Innocent of !-!i-iii!c- - To give our lid- one pipe the mnrf P-n tin- lii'lil of lame. >ines liii'-in mv ait'i'vs mu-c; T..r the M-nir-T- i"cr; ('.idem c nf my verse impugn, >,i v my lyre soul of t life An I r.iv fancy sear.

Herein lie- mv naked heart: Tel the scoffers rail. "But "ive our lads on- pipe the luni't "Va'.ll the leaden had!