POETS HALF-FORGOTTEN.

SINGERS OF LAST CENTURY.

BY FRANK MORTON.

Acceptable poets nowadays get an amount of advertisement that those of the last generation never dreamt of. In 1917, if a new poet, however minor, appears in England, all the world promptly knows of it, and people will be found to i quote his verses in Chicago, in Shanghai, in Brisbane, in Buenos Aires— on the summit of the leafiest hill in the island of Hohanna, for aught I know to the contrary. But in tho 'fifties and 'sixties the fame of minor poets did not travel far. Some perfectly delightful singers of , that period are already half-forgotten. A Scottish Poet. Take, as an example of these singers that oblivion overtakes too soon: take Alexander Smith. He had ft great vogue for a while, and deserved it; but I picked up a first edition of his "City Poems" for threepence a few days ago. He was a Scotsman, of very humble origin. He tried his father's trade with ill-success, and early determined to make a living as a poet. It is an amazing thing to reflect on, but he succeeded. When he .was twenty-three a London publisher paid him £100 for "The Life Drama." It was a large sum of money for a humble Scot of that age, but the book made a great stir, so that the publisher made vastly more money out of it than the poet did. You can road the book still with keen pleasure, for Smith had a true lyrical gift and an extraordinary wealth of language. For. a time he edited a Glasgow weekly for Robert Buchanan's father, and finally he fell into a snug place of comfort as secretary to tho Edinburgh University. Ho contributed to newspapers and magazines, he wrote other books of verse, he put out a volume of delicate prose, and before he was thirty-eight, quietly, as ' he had lived, he died. Here, for a taste of his quality:— The Lady Branche was' saintly fair, Not proud, but meek hor look. In her hazel eyos her thoughts lay clear As pebbles in a brook. Her father's veins ran noble blood. His hall rose 'mid the trees: Like a sunbeam she came and went 'Mons the white cottages. The peasants thanked her with their tears When food and clothes were given,— " This is a joy," tho lady said, "Saints cannot taste in heaven." They met,—the poet told his love, His hopes, despairs, and pains.— The lady with her calm eyes mocked The tumult in his veins. He jjassed away— a fierce song leapt From cloud of his despair. As lightning-like a bright wild beast Leaps from its thunder-lair. He poured his frenzy forth in song,— Bright heirs of tears and praises! Now resteth that unquiet heart Beneath the quiet daisies.. The world is old.-- very old,— The wild winds weep ana rave; The world is old, and grey, and cold, Let it drop into its grave. Alexander Smith was a finer poet than any nineteen of our contemporary rhymesters out of any average twenty. Sydney Dobell. Another of the half-forgotten is Sydney Dobell. I do not remember his being cited of late, even though he wrote some fine poems under the general title of "England in Time of War." Here is a eonnet of .-, his, ; '< The* Army-SurgeonA Surgery has changed -since' he wrote it, but the spirit of the men is the same. Over that breathing waste of friends and foes, The wounded and the dying, hour by hour,— In will a thousand, yet but one in power,— He labours thro' the red and groaning day. The fearful moorland where the myriads lay ■•-.<■ Moved as a moving field of mangled worms. And as a raw brood, orphaned in the storms, Thrust up their heads if the wind bend a spray Above them, but when the bare ' branch performs No 'sweet oareut»l office, sink away With hopeless chirp of woo, so as he goes Around his feet in clamorous agony They rise and fall; and nil the seething plain Bubbles a cauldron vast of many-coloured pain. His work was not consistent in quality, but at his best Dobell also was a fine and true poet. George Macdonald. There was George Macdonald, whose novels we used to read, . whose poems (which are finer) we have forgotten. Probably all that is well remembered of his are the beautiful verses of "Baby," beginning:- » ■ Where did you come from, baby dear? Out of the everywhere into here. Where did you get those eyes so blue? Out of the sky as I came through', What makes the light in them sparkle and spin? Some of the starry spikes left in. Where did you get that little tear? I found it waiting when I got here. What makes your forehead so. smooth and high? A soft hand stroked it as I went by. What makes your cheek like a warm white rose? I saw something better than anyone knows. Mortimor Collins, delicate, genial, sprightly—how few of us remember him! Among rhymers, although he had to be for ever at the pot-boning, he was a master-craftsman. He had a genuine lyric gift. WilHam Canton—he also half-forgotten; but what a genial note is his! That a poet should, be half-forgotten while, he still lives— is a curious fate. Mr. Canton was born in the island of Chusan, 1845, spent much of his childhood in Jamaica, and was later educated -in France. His technique is admirable, but there is moro than that: he is a very wise singer. Joseph Skipsey, Joseph Skipsey takes place among the half-remembered that are more than halfforgot. He was the son of a miner who was shot. dead while he was trying to restrain the police from firing on some rioters. He himself started work in the coalpit at seven years of age, and lie worked right on from twelve to fourteen hours a day, never seeing the sun except on Sundays. Ho had learned his alphabet in infancy, and as he sat in the mine, using a scrap of chalk on a trapdoor, lie taught himself to write. • When he was eleven he decided that he would commit the Bible to memory, and the plan was I carried out in part. But ho came upon I Shakespere and some other of the great j poets, and they decided his ben., Presently he got a meagre job as sublibrarian in Newcastle-on-Tvne. A little j tater he commenced to publish his books. rAnd Ibis man, with all his disadvantages, ! his crushing early labour, could write lyrics like this:— Tho Violet invited my kiss,— ' kiss'd it and called it my bride; " Was ever one slighted like this?" Sighed the Rose as it stood by my side. Mv heart over open to grief, . To- comfort the fair one I turned: '< Of fickle ones ♦Vio', art the chief!" Frowned the Violet, and pouted and mourned. Tl'°n, to oncl all disputes, I entwined The love-6tricken blossoms in one; But thn-t instant their beauty declined And 1 wept for tho deed I had done All Skipsey's work was of that qualitv, though not all of that perfectness. He deserves to be better remembered in this democratic age, "*