SONGS OF THE OPEN.

Otago Witness, Issue 2862, 20 January 1909, Page 89

SONGS OF THE OPEN.

, — *4tBt Jbsjik Mack at. A passion for sea and sky and good green earth is running through the poetry of our time ; and surely it is a sign that the pure ozone of song is still blowing freely among us, unspent in the dreary air of mine and workshop from which the dirges of "wan, Proletaria" arise against the kingdom of Mammon — unspent, too, in palace and wassail-ball from which the rank measures of the decadent Muse rise like incense to'Ashtoreth. Whitman suing the "Song of the Open. Road" once and for ever ir America. ; Stevenson sang it by creamy island shoves of the south ; a hundred living bards near and far are sing-ing it to-day. E. V. Lucas has gathered a glorious posy of sucli woodland lyrics in a late anthology, '"The Open Road" — a delight to lovers of time verse. The spirit of the open sings in this fragment of John. Le Gay Brereton : " "Where shall we dwell ?" &ay you. Wandering winds reply : "In a, temple with roof of blue Und«r the splendid sky." Never a nobler home We'll find tJsough an cg-e we try Than is arched 1 by the azure dom« Of the all-enfolding sky. Here w are wed, and here We live under God's cwn eye. " Wh«r© shall we. dwell." my dear/ Under the splendid sky. The mystery of it clings 1o thef=e lines of Ii eland's lost sinceri Ncra Hopper — dpad, alaa ' in youth "bpfoi* the full promise of hor dawn of dew -dipped pcwtrv fulfilled on earth : APRIL IX IRELAND She hatb a woven gcrlanJ all of t!>e sighing I Pcdge. And ail her flowers nre ->r.ow drops giown cm th-e wi itcr's c-"g 0 . Tba golden looms of Tir r.a ii'Og v.ove all ihe w.n+er frirougij Her giown of mat a. d raindrops shot with a cloudy blue. " I SunJig-bt she holds in one hand, and rain I she scatters after, ' And- through the rainy twilight we hear hw : fitful laughter. Sbe ehakes down on her flowers the snows lesr white than they, Then quickens with her kisses the folded '. " r Knot3 o' May." • She seekq the summer-lover that never shall be h«rs. j Pain for ?o'd leaves of autumn, she pas&es by th« fursse, Though buried gc!d it hideth; she scorns her I sedgy crcftvn. And pressing blindly cjiwards she treads ; her snowdrops down I Still moie my.-tic in its cry for a lo.=t I world of fantasy onre open to daring j lover? of -wood "and uold is her "Wind j tlie Reodb" . I M-avrone. M«vrone' the wind among the reeds, It. calls and crie=, and xvilj not let me be, And all its cry is or forgotten deeds, Wh.en men were !o\ z.\ o'. all the D»oineSidhe. O Shee "that have forgoUen how to love. And Sheo that have ior^otc*en hew to ' hate, A-=!e&p 'neath quicksn 1/onghc thkt no winds move. j Come back to \m ere yet n !>e too Inte. j Pipe io us orco „^aiii le-.i we forget ' What p-ip pg in€an« til! a'l !ho si!vcr sp?a>"-. Bp wild with gusty mr.sio, «uch as met ' Car^lan once, amid tho dxisty years And hore are golden lines by E. Xeebit — "England"' s Is there a cornor of land, a furze-fringed 3'a.g of a byway. Coign of yctvr foam-whit« cliffs or swirl of your glass-green waves, Leaf of your peacaful oopee, <ff dust of your strenuous highway, But in oui hearts ja saore3, dear %s our cmdles, our gr*veaf

Is not eaoh bough in your OTchatcts* each cloud in - tha skie3 above you, Is not each byre car homestead, furrow of farm or fold, rXeaj: as the last dear drops of th« blood in . th« hearts that love, you, Filling tKese -h«art£_tjB $te-"lbve_-is mar* than fclte~_ 'h,eaa*t can ho!<F? A strange -~s\v-eet lilt- is this "song of a dead Canadian poet, RahsSlfr Hsvs^fronl-; which I cult ' a few stanzas : ; . v * - - : , TH# ■WASTDER LOVERS, f. -- " ] Down the world with Mama! That's "thV-life Jo'r .m<e.J_ ___ ••j^, _ „] Wandering "sfi-Hi -tb© wmderfrig wind, Vagabond a«3 unconfmed ! - ■ • Soving with£ the loviwg rain, Its unboundtaied domain! Kith »nd ki& of -wander-kind, ,'- »"»-"«vj -J1 Children of the sea! Petrels of fße sea-driit! Shallows -of. th© lea! Arabs of tbe^ whole wide girth Of th« win^ncirclec> earth' In all climes tve pitch our tentSj Croniea of the elements, With tihe secret lords of birth Intimate and free. Down the world with Mama, Da;Ugh'teT of the oir! Mama of the subtle grace, And the vision in her face' Moving in the measures ttcd By th© angels before God! i With her sky-blue eye<» a-maze And her sea-blue hair! M*rn-a with the wind* will, j Daughter of the sea! Mama of tho quick disdain, Staa-t«3ig ttt die dream of stain] At a smile with love aglow. At a frown a statued woe. Standing pinnacled in pain Till a kiss frets free! Mama of the far quest After the divine! Striving ever lot some goal Past the blunder -god's control'! Dreaming of potential ye»ra Where no day shall dawn in fears! That's the Marw of my soul, Wander- bride of mine! To choose among the glorious vagabond verses of Stfevenson ifc like choosing gems itt the old treasure cave of the LuckFlower, sung in German ballads. Yet can that eong of Heimvel- for the moors of Galloway ever be quoted too often in Scottish ears? — Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain tare -flying, Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now, Whereabout the graves of the martyrs the wthaups are crying, My heart remembers how! Grey recinnbenl tombs of the dead in desert places, Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor, Hills of ehesp, and the homes of the silent vanished raoes, And win-dis, austere and pure. I Be it granted me lo behold you again in dying, ' HHIe of home, and to Lear again fhe call : j Hear about the graves of the ni&rtyrs the peewees crying, And he«r no more at all. And for a la<bt song of love in the long wander-year, can this wild road flower of Stevenson's be bettered anywhere? — ; I will make you brooches and toys £or your | delight Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night. I will make a palace fit for you and me Of green days in forest* and blue days at see. I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room, Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom,. And yon ehall w««h your linen and keep your body white ! In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night. And this shall be for music when no one el«e is near, The fine "»ng for pinging, the rare song to hear 1 This o:.!y J remember, {hat only you admire, Of the broid road that E-trelches and the roadside fire