"The Children of the Night."

Evening Post, Volume LXX, Issue 79, 30 September 1905, Page 11

"The Children of the Night."

Edwaid Arlington Robinson is an American poet whose work has found nccoptance for &ome time past, in a limited but appreciative circle, which has been gradually widening. Ono o f his admii'eis is President Roosevelt, who has contributed to the Outlook, the following review of "The Childien of the Jwght," a collection of Robinson's verses, published by Richard G. Badger and Co., Boston : — Tho "tM'ilighfc of the poets" has been especially gray m America ; for poetry is of course one of those arts in which the smallest amounc of w<n-k of the very highest class is worth an infinity of good work that is not of the highest class. The touch of the purple makes a poem out of verse, and if it is not there, there is no substitute. It is hard ,to account for the failure to produce in America of recent years a poet who in the world of letters will rank as high as certain American sculptors and painters rank in the world of art. But individual poems appear from tims to time, by Mr. Madison Cawein, by Mr. Clinton Scollard, by Dr. Maurice Egan, and others ; and more rarely a little volume of poetry appears) like Bliss Carman's "Ballads of Lost Haven." Such a book is Edward Arlington Robinson's "The Children of the Night." It is lather curious that Mr. Robinson's volume should not- have attracted more attention. There is an undoubted touch of genius in the poems collected in this volume, and a curious simplicity and good faith, all of which qualities differentiate them sharply from ordinary collections of the kind. There is iv them just a little of the light that never ' was on land or sea, and in such light the objects describec| often havo nebulous outlines ; but it is not always necessary in order to enjoy a poem that one should be able to translate it into terms of mathematical accuracy. Indeed, those who admire the colouring of Turner, those who like to read how — and to wonder why — Childe Eoland to the Dark Tower came, do not wish always to have the -ideas presented to them with cold, hard, definite outlines ; and to a man with the poetic temperament it is inevitable that life should often appear ■ clothed with a certain sad mysticism. In the present volume I am not sure that I understand "Luke Havergal ;" but I am entirely sure that I like it. Whoever, has' lived in country America knows the gray, empty houses from which life' 'hns. ppne. It is of one of these that "The House on the Hill" was written. "They are all gone away, Tho House is shut und still, There is nothing more to say. Through broken walls and gray The winds / blow bleak and shrill : They are all' gone away. ■Nor is there one to-day To speak them good or ill : There is nothing more to say. Why is it then we stray « Around that sunken sill? They are all gone away, And our poor fancy-play For them is wasted skill : ' There is nothing more to say. There is rijin and' decay In the House on the Hill : They are all gone away, There is nothing more to say." The next poem, "Richard Cory," illustrate^ a ,very ancient but very profound philosophy of life' wit?, a curiously local touch which points its keen insight. Those who .feel poetry in their marrow and fibre are the spiritual heir 3of tho ages ; and so it is natural that this man from Maine, many of whose poems could have been written only by ono to whom the most real of lives is the life of the American small town, should write his "Ballade of Broken Flutes" — where "A lonely surge of ancient spray told of

an unforgetful sea;" should write the poem . beginning : "Since Persia fell at Marathon, The yellow years have gathered fast : Long centuries have come aud gone;" and the very original sonnet on Amaryllis, the last three lines of which are : "But though the trumpets of the world were glad, It made me lonely and it made me sad To think that Amaryllis had grown old." Some of his images stay fixed in one's mind, as in "The Pity "of the Leaves," the lines running:' "The brown, thin leaves that on the stones outside Skipped with a freezing whisper." Sometimes he writes, as ,in "The Tavern/ of what most of us feel we have seen ; and then again of what we have seen only with the soul's eyes. I shall close by quoting entire his poem on "The Wilderness," which could have been written only by a man into whose heart there had entered deep the very spirit of the vast and melancholy northern forests ; , "Come away! come away! there's a frost along the marshes, And a frozen wind that skims the shoal where it shakes the ' dead black water ; There's a moan across the lowland and a wailing through the woodland Of a dirge that sings to send us back to the arms of those that love us. There is nothing left but ashes now where the crimson chills of autumn Put off the summer's langour with a touch that made us glii'd For the glory that is gone from us, with a flight we cannot follow, To the slopes of other valleys and the sounds of other shores. Come away ! come away I you can hear them calling, calling, Calling us to come to them, and roam no more. Over there beyond the ridges and tho land that lies between us, There's an old song calling us to come! Come away! come away! for the scenes wo leave behind us Are barren for the lights of home and a flame that's young forever; And the lonely trees around us creak the warning of the night-wind, That love and all the dreams of love are away beyond the mountains. The songs that call for us to-night., they have called for men before us, And the winds that blow the message, they havo blown ten thousand years ; But this will end our wander-time, for we know the joy that waits us In the strangeness of home-coming, and a faithful woman's eyes. Come away ! come away ! there is nothing now to cheer vs — ' Nothing now to comfort us, but love's road home :— Over there beyond the darkness there's a window gleams to greet us, And a warm hearth waits for us within. Come away ! come away ! — or the rovingfiend will hold us, And make us all to dwell with him to the end of human' taring : There are no men yet can leave him when his hands are clutched upon them, There are none will own his enmity, there are none will call him brother. So we'll be up and on the way, and the less we brag the better For the freedom that God gave us aud the dread we do not know: — The frost that skips the willow-leaf -will again be back to blight it, And the doom we cannot fly from is the doom we do not see. Come away! come away! there are dead men all around vs — . ' Frozen men that meek us with a wild, hard laugh That shrieks and sinks and whimpers in. the shrill November rushes, And the long full wind on the lake." Mr. Robinson has in this little volume not verse but poetry. Whether he has the power of sustained flight remains to be seen.

The Windsor Magazine for August (Ward, Lock, and Co.) opens with a profusely ihustra'tcd article by Austin Chester on tho pictures of Maud Goodman (Mrs. Arthur Scanes), the exponent of "domestic idealism," and one of the most popular of English painters. Mr. G. Lorimer contributes a valuable illustrated article on "Lighthouses," and Mr. C. J. King relates "Some Experiences of a Wave Photographer," illustrated with many fine examples of this fascinating but dangerous line of arti Mr. E. J. Seton relates the history of a grey Winnipeg wolf — a fierce and dreaded beast with the remarkable peculiarity that it would never molest children. There is some good poetry, and among the contributors of fiction 'are Messrs. Rider Haggard, Jerome K. Jerome, Robert Barr, and H. C. Bailey. The Pall Mall Magazine for September opens with the first instalment of a serial by Cutcliffo Hyne— "Tha Trials of Commander M'Turk " Mr. Of D Abraham coitributes an ■'llustratt-d article on mountaineering m tho High Alps, and the Duke of Argyll tells of the Armada ship lying off Tobermory B.iy, giving illustrations of coins and other relics recovered' from time to time from the wreck. Sir F. C. Burnand completes his article on the scries of "Punch Pocket-books," with facsimiles of their little-known sketches. Mr. Lees Rives some opinions of French scientists on Mr. Burkes "radiobes." Mr Wells continues his serial "Kipps," and other popular authors contribute fiction and verse. Tho illustrations, as usual, aro of the highest class. Steele Rudd's Magazine (Brisbane) for August ■provides so extensive a bill of faie that only n. fraction of the items can bo noted. The editor continues his new story, ''On the Condamine." Mr. Bernard O'Dowd has a two-page- poem of nineteen 'stanzas in ballad-metre entitled j "Apathy," which we find rather hard j reading, but there are other verses in ! lighter vein. "Joe Ruskin" has a realistic account of a family of Australian blacks at dinner, and "Al Copper-bot- j tomed," by George Martin, is a lively story of a master mariner* whoso boast wis that he understood women. Edgar Shirley's story, "The Marriago 'of Swanson," Ls almost too vivid a picture of the tragedy of marriage between putners of alien races. In this caso, an English gentleman marries a Maori girl, and tho marriage is emphatically "a failure." ' The third number of tho "Red Funnel" maintains the standard ' of tho opening ifisuus. An article deserving special 110lico is the illustrated account of some of Ihe treasures in the Grey Collection in Auckland, by MorLhn Myeis. Mr. J. O. Byrne writes with knowledge on "Serpents in Australia." For the next number we are promised an aiticle on Chinese labour in the Transvaal, which, is to "clear the mists away." We havo heard eomewhafc too much (a contemporary remarks) of tho ill-effecta of overwork. It is a true jest that nervous prostration among women is generally prosperity. Ono of tho latest and e'hrewdest remedies for mental breakdown is mental exercise. It is an open secret with physioians that among men jucst cases of so-called mental prostration rcmilt from prostration of tho morals. Tho occasional exceptions are generally due, Jiot co much to work as to worry, which is iUkU a prostration of tho spiritual faculties. Tho brain, like any other organ, requires au abundant supply of blood, and this is to bo had by pretty constant thinking. It iv well ' known that, brain workers as a class arc long lived^