A NEW ZEALAND POET.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1717, 25 January 1905, Page 15

A NEW ZEALAND POET.

“Poems.” By Hubert Church. Whitcombe and Tombs, Ltd., Wellington, Christ church, Dunedin, Melbourne and London.

Mr Church is no new entrant into the poetic list;?, for his graceful booklet, “The West Wind,” published some two years ago-, proclaimed him a writer of sweet and tender lyrics, filled with a sort of haunting melody—lyrics that owe their charm to the fact that they suggest, rather than express, the deli-

qate emotions and pensive reminiscences that appeal so strongly to sensitive souls. The present volume of about 120 pages will broaden his repudiation, by disclosing him in the character of a poet capable of more sustained flights than those of the lyrist; but, on the whole, it will not change his position in the poetic choir. The four lengthy pieces in the book —“'New Zealand,” “Nuneham,” “Cape Solitude” and “Tasmania”—have undoubted merits; but on the whole they are chiefly of value as demonstrating that Mr Church, with all his wealth of words and imagery, cannot successfully write long poems. His Muse is essentially lyric; he also handles with some deftness the sonnet form, as is proved by the dc?zen sonnets he publishes in this book ; but outside of these spheres he strikes us as a boat carrying too much sail, liable at any moment to come* to disaster. In his blank verse, for example, he gives us many lines that show, either that his ear is most defective, or that he has mistaken, the accentuation of words. “New Zealand,” a blank verse poem of thirty-two pages, is given the place of honour; but one may read it a dozen times without grasping the author’s meaning, or seeing the connection between New Zealand and many of his images and allusions. There is sonorousness, suggestivenoss, and a haunting impression that something is coming; but it never comes. Every now and then the tear is offended! by lines that will not scan unless a false accent, be given to words. The third line of “New Zealand” runs:— “Breaks on ultimate shores, whose citadels.” Now, that, is not verse at all, unless “ultimate” be accented on the second syllable. A score of equally aggravating lines could be quoted. Here are a few at random:— “Take invisible adoration, hear.” “Multitudinous echo of wide foam.” “Breath of cinnamon gale Ceylon lias blown.” “Thunder-stricken and foam-lit, of the scar.” “To ethereal amplitude of soul.” “Adamantine cruelty and disdain.” The last-quoted line can only be read as a five-feet iambic by mispronouncing both “adamantine” and “cruelty”; it the words are correctly accented, the line is mere prose, like many more, in the book. Mr Church makes the further mistake of using poetry as a means of giving expression to his political and party bias. No exception can be taken to his line tributes to the late Wm. Rolleston and Sir Harry Atkinson ; but the case is entirely different when in “New Zealand” he breaks out as follows, in one of the few passages of the poem that are easily intelligible:— “How good to pause Mid this mad revelry of gain to watch The sober majesty >of men that built Towers, sanctuaries, for liberty, and died With fame like the bruised fragrance of a rose. Secret and all-pervading. I dare not name These Seneschals of Freedom with the men Who break the spirit and the law, but keep Its rule and perquisites. We have chosen Chaos of squat intelligence that apes Tyranny closed in specious garb, and seeks A fetid oracle, beslavering it Equality of votes —harlot and nun. One man, one vote, one destiny of dross, One imbecility of ignorance ■Darkening counsel; losing the path of truth, Befogged in that Daedalian swamp profound. Democracy, ruffled by jangling winds To noisome turbulence; where Envy is King And Violence his vizier. Idle words, A pure democracy! As well to speak Of prostitution pure!” Now this is not good poetry, the metro halts badly in places; the politics are doubtless honest, but they are very shallow and unphilosophic. The author is happier in “Tasmania” and in “Cape Solitude,” while in “Nuneham” he gives us some very fair Alexandrines; but he is everywhere seen at liis best in short flights of song. He opens a poem, “Tenebrae,” with, the line — “Upon the drousy middle of the night,” which is an acknowledged appropriation from (we think) Keats, with the mere substitution of “drousy” for “honied.” We have pleasure in quoting his excellent sonnet on VICTORIA COLLEGE. Thou shalt be greater than the city that lies Beneath thee; though the wave curve tender foam Athwart her beach, thou hast a fairer home Where mountains watch thee with eternal eves. Within thy sanctuary men shall prize The charm of Greece, the majesty of Rome, And Science through thy starry-circled dome Shall trail her robe of unimagined dyes. As thou hast gathered round tlieo all that brood Of sacrifice for Knowledge, who foresee Regeneration, humbleness, and faith Won through the yoke of Pallas, thou shalt be Memory for those that build thy Avails, when Death. Had given them else forgotten solitude. Mir Church’s volume deserves to have

a good vogue among lovers of graceful lyrics but we should be sorry if his political views, as enunciated in “New Zealand,” were accepted by people at a distance as being in any sense- accui*ate, or representative of popular opinion here.