"THE CONQUERORS"

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXIII, Issue 22356, 29 February 1936, Page 9 (Supplement)

"THE CONQUERORS"

POEMS BY ROBIN HYDE In the well-printed little volumes of Macmillan's Contempory Poets is one by a New Zealander, Miss Iris Wilkinson, best known to an interested reading public as Robin Hyde. A place in this list ensures the attention of a great host to " The Conquerors and Other Poems," and that attention will pass from respect to affectionate appreciation. These are poems indeed. Robin Hyde has a gift for the right word. Whether her music bo linnetsinging or the beating out of diction that rings under studious hammerblows, the product is the same —clear, beautious, compact, resounding. And she has initiative and power, a fact no less evident as this collection is pondered. Some readers may find, at first, this vital force a check to enjoyment, for a prevalent habit with many poetrylovers is to look for easeful surface pleasure; they would have the charm obvious, sharply appealing. Such appeal is here, but the best is for those glad to dip beneath. They will come back and back" again to phrase, to line, to whole poem, to discover that earliest impressions are deepened at every recurrent contact.

Forty-three poems make this collection, and they are varied enough in theme and measure to reveal a wide scope of thought as well as a voyaging mind. In metric skill they vary, in motif they shift quickly, as all such collections do; but none is trite, none dull, none unchallenging. " The Conquerors " itself is a song of the air, of the triumphs won by less-seeming labour in aircraft than they knew who_ sailed, journeyed, climbed laboriously in their patient quests. Of to-day it is, yet of the ageless things that throb in the heart of man. For sheer artistry, " Montaigne on the Hillside " is preeminent, its incisiveness of description blended with a delightful delicacy of touch. Montaigne's spirit is aware of the reading of his pages by a woman on a shore, of the turning of her thought away to other things.

And he knew that the curve of her throat, the dream in her eyes, Were one with the thought of delicate growing things; That there in the forest, her heart was a secret nest _ , "Whose walls were waiting the sound of wings.

So he turned from the rubiee and lazuli set in the page „ , , , Of his book, that gleamed from a desert of shards and spires. Crumbled faces and friends of hia bygone age, To the sunlight's tawny fires,

Gilding the hillside, arming the dark young host , Of island pine trees each with a crystal spear; . And a warmth crept into the thin white hands of the ghost As he laid his fingers in blessing upon her hair. Only one other quotation can here bo given. It is the three stanzas of " Conquest." Never in vain: not if the last red dawning Find your troops routed, all your hope undone. And that which you had prized, and fairly won. About the heels of pom® gilt lackey fawning. Nor if the cygnet cities yon have taken Yield up their lustre to a barbarous foe Need peaoe of yours be even a moment shaken, Need honour you have gained be held so low. For being man, you in your heart must carry Conquest and empire, and the twain are great: What if the fruits of peace some while should tarry 1 No hand in all the world can mar your state. That must suffice. The widening circle of Robin Hyde's friends in poesy will be grateful for this book of her best yet. " The Conquerors and Other Poems," by Robin Hyde. (Macmillan.)