THE DUMB FOLK.

Auckland Star, Volume LX, Issue 242, 12 October 1929, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE DUMB FOLK.

WHAT THE POETS THINK. CRUELTY CONDEMNED. FROM COWPER TO HODGSON. (By ALICE A. KENNY.) And I am recompensed, and deem the toils Of poetry not lost, if verse of mine May ft.-iml between an animal and woe, And tench one tyrant pity for his drudge. So Cowper wrote in his time,, and I think it might cheer his melancholyheart if he could see how many of te trade to-day plead eloquently for the animals he loved. Hβ was born nearly two hundred years ago. It is rather remarkable that his views about the blood sports are in agreement with the most advanced opinions of our time. Detested sport, That owes its pleasures to another's pain, That feeds upon the sobs and dying shrieks Of harmless nature. No doubt the jovial souls to whom he refers considered such sentiments merely a sympton of the mental malady that darkened his later life, especially as he adds, Well—one at least is safe. One sheltered hare Has never heard the sanguinary yell Of cruel man, exulting in her woes. All his nature poems show close observation and sensitive feeling; a sigh is always on his lips for the fate of the wild creatures whose ways he notes, . . . Close to Kilwicks echoing wood, Where oft the bitch fox hides her hapless brood, Reserved to solace many a neighbouring squire. He was a tireless champion of animals, and it is easy to read in the many poems he wrote on their behalf that his heart ached all his life long for sufferings he could not heal, as many hearts do still. He might cherish and protect his own two dogs, his cat, his five rabbits, three hares, and two guinea pigs, his magpies, jays,, starlings, goldfinches, and canaries, but there was still a whole world of illtreated dumb things beyond his aid. To-day, more than in the intervening generations, we have poets of humanity whose-gifts- gain them a hearing.

Compassion and Remorse. W. H. Davies, among his lovely little lyrics full of "rapture of living and the worship of beauty, utters this cry of the heart:Not even when the early birds Danced on my roof with showery feet Such music as will come from rain— Not even then could'l forget ! The rabbit in his hours of pain; Where, , lying in an iron trap, He cries all through the deafened: night, Until his , smiling murderer comes To kill him in the morning light. " A Child , ? Pet" is another of his poems, describing how one, among two thousand sheep carried from America to England to be slaughtered, showed itself tame and unafraid of men. " You see," I said, " this one tame sheep, It seems a child has lost her pet, And. cried herself to sleep." So every time we passed it by Sailing to England's slaughterhouse, Eight ragged sheepmen, tramps and thieves, Would stroke that sheep's black nose. Francis Brett Young, weir known as a novelist of the first order, has this fine remorseful sonnet: Bete Humaine. Riding through Kuwu swamp, about sunrise, I saw the world awake; and as the Tay Touched the tall grasses where they sleeping lay, . Lo, the bright air, alive with dragon fliea With brittle wings aquiver, and.great eyea Piloting crimsou bodies, slender and gay. I aimed at one, and struck it, and it lay , Broken and lifeless, with fast fading' dyes. Then my soul sickened with a sudden pain And horror at my own careless cruelty, That in an idle moment I had slain A creature whose sweet life it is to fly: Like beasts that pray with tooth and claw— Nay they ' Must slay to live, but what excuse had I? Ralph Hodgson is already well known as a passionate humanitarian. His outcry, about " blind pit ponies, tamed and shabby tigers,'and little hunted hares " is often quoted. In J. C- Squire's admirable anthology that is not included, but a long one called " The Bull" is. It is beautiful and powerful, but for my part I -find it too painful to dwell on. It is an unforgettable picture of an old bull, once the leader of the wild herd, defeated, cast out, and waiting to die alone, sick, wounded, and watched by vultures. The common end of wild creatures, but not less tragic for that.

A Poet's Dog. T. Sturge Moore's poem, "The Gazelle," is also about wild creatures. It is full of colour and magic; part of it describes the Shah's sons with cheetahs, and i'eastirg after the bunt, while . . . The orphaned herd And wounded stragglers through the night Wander in pain, and wail unheard To the rnoou and the stars so cruelly hright. Recently I rediscovered an old favourite, written by St. John Lucas about his dog, which is worth quoting: J will net think those good brown eyes Have spent their light of truth so soon, But in some canine Paradise Your wraith, I know, rebukes the moon; And quarters every plain and hill Seeking its master. ... As for me, This prayer at least the gods fulfil, That when I pass the flood and see Old Charon by the Stygian coast Take toll of all the shades who land, Your little faithful barking ghost Will leap to lick my phantom hand. I like, too, some verses by an Irish poetess, Celia Duffin. AN OLD DOG. Now that no shrill hunting horn Can arouse me at the morn, Deaf I lie the long day through Dreaming firelight dreams of you; If we are, as people say. But the creatures of'a day, Let me live, when we must part, A little longer in your heart. You were all the god I knew; - 1 was faithful unto you. James Stephens, in his book "Songs from the Clay," has some tender poems, simpK and pitiful, like those of W. H. Davies. "The Snare," "The Cage," and "The Lark" are all of that quality. The last is about a broken-winged bird that can never soar or sing again.

Since I never intentionally wear fur?, but think human beauty better rerved by bright woven fabrics of silk or wool, perhaps T may quote a few lines from Edwin Markham's tragic poem, " TLu Fate of the Fur Folk." Ladiea, did you ever see An otter gnawing to get free? Gnawing what? His fettered leg, For he has no friend to beg. Do you see that tortured shape Gnaw his leg off to escape? Have you seen these creatures die While the bleeding hours go by?. Do you, when at night you kneel, See them in their traps of steel— Not alone by pain accurst, But by hunger and by thirst? Do you hear their dying cries When the crows pick out their eyes? Ladies, are the furs you wear Worth the hell of this despair?