THE POETRY OF LOUISE MACK.

Otago Witness, Volume 23, Issue 2684, 23 August 1905, Page 69

THE POETRY OF LOUISE MACK.

By Jessie Mackat.

PART 11. In presenting what most emphasises the typically Australian trend of her verse I have hitherto done less than justice to Louise MaclTs art. True, it is not faultless, and critics of the "rule of thumb" order have made enough of her occasional lapses of metre, discordant lines, and rllchosen words. But these are more than condoned by the originality of thought and general force of diction. Mr A. G. Stephens says, speaking of the blemishes of Shelley's verse., master of lyric art though he was : — "His song is as fresh and spontaneous as his own skylarks, and as imptrfect. ... In her minor place Louise Mack's breaches -of poetic rule are the complement of her poetic merit. For the most part her verses are little rills of song, gushing through 'channels of melody as naturally as a brook from its source, and meeting obstacles to expression as simply as a brook meets obstacles in its flow." How true this is one sees well in many ' a dainty verse, -especially in this galloping rhyme — one of her best : Fantasy, Fantasy, fly away! I'll mount you; we'll follow, follow, the hurrying day, — Chase the gold through amethyst lakes, Burn our bosoms with scarlet flakes, And leaping over the sunset's "brim Steal a chord of the young star's hymn. Ah, Fantasy you and I I Stop far nothing on earth or sky. ', Charger of gold, with arrogant feet, ' Carry me. serve roe! , Let me ride and dream on your haughty back ' Till we come to. the Little Death Track ; i Then, Fantasy! then, ah then, A bosom of earth and a horse of black. I • ... ! j Faaitasy, Fantasy, ab, the day! ! I mount, and you sadly refuse the way. I Tired or halt, with impotent feet, j Blind amd weary of wind' and heat, — , Ah, stumbling, sonowful, deadly hour j When Fantasy falls like a rain-torn flower! I | Once, Fantasy, you and I I Stopped for nothing on earth or sky. Charger of gold, with way-worn feet, Onward a litdrle! . While T promise and pray on your weary back, Soon to come to -the Little Death. Track. Then, Faarfcasy! gladly then I'll yield you, my steed, for a horse of black. The most remarkable poem in the book, to jay mind, is "To Darkmsss." The theme is strange — morbid, even, — but the diction is charming and the plan, is perfect. Aus- , tralia is Nature's Land of Paradox; and so out of its sunshine is fittingly evolved tie passion f>r Night and Death whioh runs through this young girl's song like the secret, silent Nile flowdng through Egypt. The Lines sing as they fly after each other: Moon, is it fault of mine that I do not set Tour tender crystal high in my heart? , Moon, is it shame to me that I will not let Your fragile shining light me to heaven? Fault onsrhame, I will keep my name To set at the end of the only song I ever will sing, my whole life long. Sun, is it written down in your red, red book How I was faithless, who loved you so well ? Then is it written, too, that my false eyes look Up to your face, Sun, and all's forgiven? Faith or fall, I must keep my all To swell the sound of the only song I ever will sing, nay whole life long. Then to the Night, And good-bye to light, For ever, and ever, -and ever. 0, tender, noble, imperious black! Best and bravest, shield that I lack, « Now living or dead, I shall never .be haunted any more, For the Mack, black JNight -has revealed the shore Of ■fcLe furthest sea in any -world, Has carried rae up to the highest steep, Has borne me under the under-deep, And lying silent I faiow, ere long, I shall catch and capture my perfect song, i My splendid, passionate, .scythe-like song, ! Blown of the dark, as a soul is blown Out of the 'black unknown. Louise Mack has not a touch of the Humanity passion which lies behind tlio staoeato motes of Bernard O'Diowd. Yet sho has individual tendernesses which sometimes carry farther— womanly tendernesses wliicih bring her from hpr dark loved clouds of fantasy to suffering ea,rth. Such ,, P is the curious dirge of ''Little Golden- * hair"': Scatter along her way Nk> bursting flowers, no roses, No lilies, with hearts of day, Primrose that the night encloses ; Not airy flowers at -all, For she loved them. Not as a pall Would she have them pressing upon her breast. Carry her flowerless to her real. Few Australian verses have the magic of this, the conclusion of the dharact eristic fragment "Vows" : Yet oh, my one Beloved, What vow could bind us Closer than this one kiss, The world behind us? — Starlight a-ud moonlight in the east, In ih& west a dull red river, And somewhere God, to Tead our hearts, And write on us foe eves. One British strain is seldom absent from her poetry— the lore of home. Her patriotic pieces are not her best, yet none taai doubt tho genuine, passion of them; and -"there will be few more popular pieces in tihe book than "To Sydney" — the human love is so free, so girl-like, so yearningly intense : The languid turquoise of the sky, The gardens flowing to the wave, I drag them in, O city, save The grave for me where I must lie!

Bernard O'Dowd has too much message to be able to sing ; Louise Mack has so much song that sine has no message to deliver — except the general message of her special school, which is to bear the disease we call Life with what equanimity we may, since earth lias no cure and heaven is a thing not proven. The typical Australian poet is a fierce lover of liberty. That, of ooiwse, is a platitude, for all poets, have been the same. But the Australian, in addition, asserts a peculiar right to nourish his griefs, and peculiarly resenls the gentle coercion towards happiness exercised by spring and seed-time, sun, bird, and blossom. Louise Mack is as sad as the rest, but, woman-like, calls on Honour and Pride to dig Sorrow's decent grave: Wot for us all is ready yet Confident coffin for all regret; Not for us all has there opened wida Infinite peace on a green hillside; Yet and for all there's a charge to keep To bury it deep, bury it deep.

One last beautiful fragment I quote at length. It tells its own tale, and shows Louise Mack at her truest and best — a wild-bird sc.nl, ungrasping, unfcaring, indifferent to the alien and fettered ways 01 living men: To soar as a wild, white bird", With a song unbound and fetterless! With a gush of song in the throat, Loosened and loud and letterless, And the wind its only accompaniment, To sing and soar and look down On a world on© leaves when one tires of it; With a glancing wing for a, sail, Dashing, when one desires of it, Through the spray of the great sea-wilderness. Or sweeping with mighty curves From la-nd to sky, and to land again; To oast off Time, and to stay Where one's will alone lays hand on one; Not to own or owe in the universe. Sudden and swift some day _ Meet Death, and know no fear of him, But close the eyes and have done, When a wild bird dies now Jiear of him ; He has sung and ceased, and is happiest.