6i6 



REVIEW OF REVIEWS. 



POETRY IN THE PERIODICALS. 



Geoffrey Cookston's " Nocturne " (the 

 English Review) rediches a very high level 

 of poetic imagery, expressed in unequi- 

 vocal language. Here is an extract of 

 the poet's description of a turbid pool 

 of the blind sea : — 



On its broad surface filth 

 And splendour glittered ; chastity and spilth 

 Of lewdness; all compassion, all disdain, 

 All beauty, all disgust, all pride, all pain, 

 Swept indistinguishably ; as if some power, 

 Which is the cosmic spirit of the hour 

 And of all time, that neither seeks, nor spares, 

 Nor pardons, nor rewards, but all man dares 

 Or suffers, prompts, absorbs and supersedes. 

 Wrought visibly ; compelling to its needs 

 Those strenuous atoms, by the Hand that 



flung 

 The stars through space, fish through the 



deep, and stung 

 To life the warm eartli-slime The liuman 



stream 

 Swarmed, yeasty nothings focussod in the 



beam 

 Illumining a microscopic slide 

 And tyrannous frauds thar kept tlie world 



tongue-tied. 

 Serene and sanguine prophecies, and bri2;ht 

 Hallucinations sank; and infinite 

 Abysses wailed; and deities avignst 

 Cried, like the voice that whispers in the dust 

 And darkened windows glimmered in the 



naves 

 Of lampless sanctuaries: and silent graves 

 Seemed cenotaplis of faiths whose light is 



spent ; 

 And a new voice beat down the argument 

 Of childish creeds. But beyond love and hate. 

 Remorseless still, and still dispassionate, 

 Helpless and irresistible as doom 

 Heaved the unfathomable i^ea, whose womb 

 Brings forth her mighty children, -tid whose 



maw 

 Devoureth her own lirood 



An interesting feature C)f a recent 

 number of the Open Court is a series of 



translations, by Arthur Lloyd, of 



fapanese songs, written by Madame 

 Saisho Absuko. 



The following poem is entitled 

 ■ Human Happiness " : — 



Ah ! deem not human happiness to lie 



In Fortune's singling thee above thy mates 



To special privilege. 



Yon gras.shopper. 

 W'liom Fate elected to his high estate. 

 And placed to sing in yonder gilded cage, 

 Think'st thou he's happy? Nay, although 



thou bid 

 Rim sing his native .song in that strange 



place. 

 He can't forget his freedom, and be sure 

 He's yearning all the time for those lost fields 

 Wherein, a humble citizen, lie took the air 

 And chirruped as he leaped for want of 



thought. 



An interesting article, by Mr. J. D. 

 Logan, on the martial verse of Cana- 

 dian poetesses appears in the Canadian 

 Magazine. 



After references to the poems of Mrs. 

 Susanna Moodie, Miss Isabella Craw- 

 ford, and Miss Agnes Machar, the writer 

 speaks of Mrs. Annie Rothwell-Christie, 

 whose martial verse he says attains to 

 the dignity and beauty of pure poetry. 

 In the following lines from " The 

 Woman's Part," the poet solaces the 

 mother or wife whose son or husband 

 has died on the battlefield : — 



O. woman-heart be strong. 



Too full for words — too humble for a prayer — 

 Too faithful to be fearful— offer here 

 Your sacrifice of patience. Not for long 

 The darkness. When the dawn of peace 



lireaks bright 

 Blessed .she who welcomes whom her God shall 



save. 

 But honoured in her God's and country's 



sight. 

 She who lifts empty arms to cry, " I Gave." 



In the British Review, J. C. Squire 

 strikes a happy reminiscent string, some- 

 what to the note of " Forty Years After.^^ 

 The poem is entitled " Back at School," 

 and we quote the last lines: — 



There are fags coming back from the farms 



with their freight. 

 There's a gang strolling round by the little 



chapel gate. 

 There's a crowd in the tuckshop, and people 



playing fives 

 In the court where two rabbits played the 



game of their lives. 

 Do they wonder as they glance at the 



strangers in the qu.ad. 

 If men who had been here could look quite so 



odd ? 

 The slackers in the tuckshop and the people 



playing fives. 

 You can see they do not know they have 



stolen our lives. 



Not a change, not a change, li^ere the old 



things endiire. 

 Smooth were our l)rows here, our anger was 



pure. 

 But these now who walk here, confident and 



free. 

 Envy our manhood, and even so did we. 

 Sad sings an inner voice, " Merry 'twas then, 

 Truth once we knew here before we were 



men !" 

 But these whom we see now, confident and 



free, 

 Will grow old before their hearts do, and 



even so have we. 



