THE SEEING OF SIGURD.

Otago Witness, Issue 2915, 26 January 1910, Page 83

THE SEEING OF SIGURD.

By Lavengro.

"Croon lowr in the days oi the snowy "bloom I shall go back to the yellow land yet; Tryst twice, not by the tci-blocm, Not by in its silvery fret. Heart of my Beart, where the gentians wave In the field of the dead, shall I seek me ai grave. Once we shall tryst where the gentians are; Once in the heaven of heavens afar." From "Phantom Ford." "The Land of the Morning" (written by Jessie Ma<skay, and just published by Messrs Whitcombe and Tombs) is a very attractive cloSh-bound volume of singularly poetical and richly-endowed verse. All the qualifications of a true poet-artist a<re here—imagery, fire, music, and pathos. A firmness «l! touch, a- perfection of technique, and an indefinable atmosphere ,of romance not only render the book eminently but prove the authoress to be indeed a ma.jor poetess. Every demand of poetry is fulfilled: there is no falling short, no bathos, no half measures, no unmelodic'US stanzas. There ia verbal dignity, but there is more, for the poems possess local colour, atmosphere, and individuality. One can read these verses for the mere swing of the rhythm; they N *re so artistically symmetrical, so suited to vocalisation, so immeasurably music. Poems which appeal to the ear, to the vision, and to the imagination; in short, poems which are essentially poetical. A lyric aptitude, a spontaneous and genuine inspiration, ana the grand manner without the merest suggestion of striving after effect are truly characteristic qualities notably exhibited m this volume. -. Miss Mackay is not didactic— me does not preach, she simply sings; her work is lyric. But she is also a balladist and sometimes in essaying this form she approaches the dramatic, but her ballads always betray the singing Quality first and the other attr-buces afterwards. This is exemplified m 'Hona of the Moon," which may be described as a children's story in verse. It is really a Kiort baJlad„ but its chief ©haraeteristios are Ivric and pictorial, intensity and melody. The story of Bona could not be told effectively otherwise than in such singing verse: Eona, Bona, sister olden, — Bono in the.moon! _ You'll never break your prison golden,— Never, late or scon! Bona, foirher crying daughter, At the dead of night ■ Took the gourd and went for water; Went without a light. There she heard the owlets wrangle With an angry hoot; Stick and stone and thorny tangle Wounded Bona's foot. "Boil the moon!" she said in -passion; "Boil your lazy head! Hiding thus in idle fashion In your starry bed!" Angry was the moon in heaven; Down to earth slhe came: "Stay you ever unforgiven _ For the word of shame! "Ho!—you made the moon a byword— Up and dwell with me!" Bona felt the drawing skyward,— Seized a ngaio tree. But from earth the ngaio parted Like a bitten thread: Like a comet upward darted Bona overhead. In- the moon is Bona sitting, Never to be free; With the gourd she held in flitting, And the ngaio tree. You'll never break your prison golden,— Never late nor soon. Bona., sister olden, — Bona in the moon! "Phantom Ford" is another instance of the Ivrio ballad. It is a noem in the strictest sense of the word; it is lyric; it tela a pretty, albeit sad, story—a story with a dread underlying pathos, and claiming a more subtle thought than dominates the majority of great poems. Here are the tragedies of Vnat-may-be and what-might-have-been, with a.ll their light and shade, their e av romance and grey disillusionment exhibited m deni nee of prose—for such verse has no recourse *n prose effects. No rhetoric, no eloquence obtrudes to mar the opulent ministrations of inesy "Phantom Ford" is » comparatively "ong poem, but we must have at least a few -erses. (From Part I): "_> ho, under the toi-bloc-ra Here did the Maori maid hearken as 1 1— Trvst here, crowned with the snowy bloom Of fee convolvulus trailing on high? Did the thrill, did she grope for a grasp of the Bune, ~.,-. TI:-3 wail of the woodhen, the wind to the moon, t-, the long bird-hunt, past many a year 7 Tod give you rest if he came not, my dear! Yo ho. from their long wanderings (Haste ye, my loveir, and: basts ye. my lord),

Birds of the waste in the silver meander-Snow-motered waters of Pantom Ford,— ! Calm as at Eden gate, seek to their nest. , (Haste to the shoaling of shells in the west) Yo ho, the sweet croon of their call By Phantom Ford at even-fall 1 Yo ho, pale is the gold of it; Feathery toi, a-dreaming and meek. Dream? Yea, one shall lay hold of it. Ha! by the ti-tree, down by the creek—(Lost in a trembling, where shall we hide?. We tremble together, yon tall toi-bride)! Yo ho, my lover, my lord, Bides in to the tryst at Phantom Ford I And from Part II: Croon low; set is the sun to me. Low by the buff-coloured dunes of the sea. Croon low: rides never one to me,Never by ti-tree nor wind-waven lea! Ancient of rays! how the Maiden of Gloam Sits in the west with a cloud for her home, And mourns for the sun as I mourn for my For the sheep are to hill but the shepherd ia sped. I Croon low: far is the yellow land. Ringed with the serrated pearl of its j bournes, — | Far, far, as Eden, its fellow land! (Grey is the Gloam Maiden; ever she , mourns). it! All has been said, 'and .all has been sealed. Here by the dunes of the sea-beaten field, \ I ponder alone, for the iris has turned Half a life back, and the Rune has been . learned. I , Croon low: me are they calling yet | Down at the ford where the river is low,— I ■ Birds of the waste in the dew that is falling ! yet,— . ~ Bird 3 cf the rainbow with heads of the snow ? , | Ah no, for they died in the prime; j ! Died in a white bitter even of rime; | ! Died where the wine of the west had been poured ! ; Into the shallows of Phantom Ford. ! The concluding stanza of this poem is j I quoted at head of page. ! It is needless to state that there is at least a suggestion of Maori lore in the two poems already cited. In any case scenic New ZeaI land, the New Zealand of the primitive, the gigantic mountainous and weird windl haunted New Zealand we.know so well, .ooms i largo on the pictorial horizon of the latter i poW "Rona in" the Moon" is founded no 1 doubt on a, Maori legend; but the other ' owes nothing to Maori art or • imagination. i Its inspiration is distinctly Western, ' certainly the passine race is not. Rona in the Moon" and "Phantom Ford' may be termed New Zealand poems. The writer of "Land of the Morning" does not preach. So much has been already stated. But she celebrates the heroic in. a. manner which is in itself heroic. Arid although many of her ballads are deliberately chosen on account cf the appeal already ■ vested with the - subject-matter it would" bo difficult to name one, however elaborate, : which approaches the simple effectiveness of ' "The Gray Company/' a poem universal ; with a poignant sorrow wo ail must share. j Pathos, which is the vantage ground ot Miss. Mackay's attitude, sounds its haunting call in evry verse of this great tribute to our brave pioneers: O the gray, gray company Of the pallid dawn! O the ghostly faces Ashen-like and drawn! ' The Lord's lone sentinelti Dotted down the years! - The little gray company Before the pioneeire! Dreaming of Utopias - Ere the time was ripe, They awoke to scorning. To jeering and to strife. Dreaming of millenniums In a world of -wars. They awoke to shudder At a flaming Mars. Never was a Luther But a Hurs was first, — A fountain unregarded In the -primal thirst. Never was' a Newton i Crowned and honoured well, ! But first a lone Galileo Wasted in a cell. In each other's faces Loobsd the pioneers; Drank the wine of courage All their battle years. For their weary sowing Through the world wide, Green they saw the harvest Ere the day they died. But the gray, gray company Stood every man alone In the chilly dawnlight: Scarcely had they known Ere the day they perished That their beacon star Was not glint of marshlight In the shadows far. The brave white witnesses To the truth within Took the dart of folly, Took the jeer of sin. Crying, "Follow, follow Back to Eden-gate!" They trod the Polar desert, — Met the desert fate. Be laurel to the victor, And roses to the fair And asphod«l Elysian Let the hero wear; But lay the maiden lilies Upon their narrow biers— The lone gray company Before the pioneers! Although "Land of the Morning" is the book under review, all the poems we are .quoting (in full or in part) have previously appeared -in a small booklet entitled "From the Maori Sea." Therefore they are more widely known than many of the numbers contained in the new volume. But we purposely refrain from making extracts from the work contained in "Land of the Morning," for we fear even the mention of a line or two is to some extent liable to detract i from the strange fascination a book-lover dis- : covers in the reading of a new poem in a ! new book. Not all the praise possible, nor all the enthusiasm in the world, displayed on the part of the reviewer can condone for this very real loss which every bookman must inevitably experience if he reads the critical journals. And "Laud of the Morning" conj tains some new poems which to us appear ! to be magnificent; in fact, it would be a I sacrilegious inference to name titles, for each poem has its own particular appeal, and the . author has been critical and editorial to a . fault. But there are still other poems we are left the privilege to quote. Ther is that powerful epigram entitled "Growing and Grief," which ' one must memorise to thoroughly appreciate. | To positively realise poetry it must be read when in that mood for which the poet has j created it. Subtract the dominant mood 1 from poetry—that is, the truest poetry—and l you have very little left. So by memorising I one can always meet the mood well prepared. ' And, again, as far as lyric or ballad verse

is concerned, reading is only half the battle. But here is the epigram: All the world is growing, and there are two growings most grievous;— Yea, when the courses of summer, of bud and of blossom bereave us,— Yea,, when the searing of summer tells what the song of the brave meant;— One is the root of the tree, that cleaveth the flag of the pavement, Cracking its earthly environ that so it mayi live and not smother; . And growing beyond a loved one—ay, that is the saddest and other! And the sentiment of this unique epigram finds further elaboration in the "Song of the Drift Weed," a song, indeed, which most people have to realise one way or another: Here's to the home that was never, never I ours! , . ! Toast it full and fairly when the winter lowers. Speak ye low, my merry men, sitting at your I ease; Harken to the homeless drift in the roaring I seas! Here's to the selves we shall never, never j earth! ■,..■• i Cut for us awry, awry, ages ere the birth. ! Set the teeth and meet it well, wind upon the shore; j Like a lion, in, the face look the Nevermore! ' Here's to the love we were never let to win' , ' What of that? A many shells have a pearl i within; ~ Some a,re mated with the gold m the light of day; . ' Some are buried fathoms deep, in the seas j away. I Here's to the selves we shall never, never j be! , We're the drift of the world and the tangle of '-'he sea. It's far beyond the Pleiad, it's out beyond I the sun , Where the rootless shall be rooted when J the wander-year is done!, Perhaps our quotations are the least obi viously poetical of Mka Mackay's work. 1 "Phantom Ford" is perhaps an exception, but there is no doubt that both "Growing ' and Grief" aud "The Song of the Drift , Weed," with "The Gray Company;," and, of i course, many others, bear the stamp of 1 immortality. Much fine verse has been pro- ! duced in New Zealand, and some great ! poetry also. We do not like invidious comparisons, and we know what apparently some of the critics do not—that in the heaven of art there are many mansions. Great writers cannot be pitted one against the other. ! Shakespeare, Goethe, Victor Hugo, and Keats 1 and Tennyson. Heine and Schiller axe adI mittedly great posts, but their followers linger in opposite camps. However, the eternal banner of art waves triumphantly over all. and the petty differences are only settled by Time, the great arbitrator. And of the great poetry produced in our country, Miss Miackay is responsible for no mean share. If we become more strict and' narrow the term New Zealand poets to the designation of verse-writers bcrn in the Dominion, then wo make bold to say that Miss Mackay is responsible for what may be termed the lions share of -cm poetical achievement. _ A list we would be pleased to give I who, with merely a few exceptions, were barn elsewhere and in no, way are able to share the pride of the native-born. Our author, of whom we <are so justly . proud, is of Celtic extraction'if or.e can so speak, and she possesses a very genuine affection for her ancient ancestors. " Most people have a handy knack of forgetting their foremaars a-t least of a Generation or so baok, but Miss Mackay nobly, but none the less artistically, sings: Do and 10, mine ancient people! Cairn and cromlech hold them sleeping; Mine though all the world divide! Where abode my lonely spirit When their early clay was fashioned, — Bangs of misty Albyn wide? Do and lo! the passion gathers, Far away by southern waters, Mourning Malvina dead! Mourning for the hills of Morven, And the perished kings of Albyn,— Fair fall the hearts they led! Morn to morn the cairn is calling; Nightly yerks She cord that binds ma To the land of Fingal's rest. Mine they are, the ancient people,— They who went, —returning never ' From the battle in the west! — Blood and name and doom embracing, Happier passing, dying, with them!— Mine to the 'mist of doom! So'tho dreamy passion gathers, By the bright unstoried Waters Where found their children room. Perhaps no mention of Miss Mackay's work is complete without some reference to "A Folk Song," which ba.s been quoted times out of number. It consists of three verses, and requires very little by way of commentary. In consideration of the fact that it in so well known one verse will perhaps suf fice: » I came to your town, my love, And you were away, away! I said "She is with the mountain elves And misty and fair as they. They are spinning a diamond net To cover her curls of jet." But O the pi*-y! I had but a noon of searing heat To come to your town, my love, my sweet, And you were away, away! Another well-known poem of Miss Mackay's is entitled "Spring Fires." This is almost, if not wholly, perfect from the artistic 1 standooint. The metrical scheme is well ; suited to the verbal treatment of the subjectI matter. Form and matter harmonise to an i extent rare in even the world's literature of ' verse. The rhythm of the work assists _ the I pictorial effect in no slight degree. It is a poem redolent of the tussock plains, the ■ blue smoke, and summer twilight. Docal colour is here, if anywhere, and one cannot ' , fail to see: j The running rings of fire on the Canterbury HiUs — Running, ringing, dying at the border of ! the snow, — Mad, young, seeking, as a young thing wills, , j The ever, ever living, ever buried Long I Arr»! The soft running fire on the Canterbury j hiUs, ' | Swinging low the censer of a tender 1 heathenesse. ' To the dim Earth goddesses that quicken j a! the thrills i When the heart's wine «f August is drip--1 ] ping from the press. The guiet bloom of haze on the Canterbury I hills! The fire, it is the moth that is winging to the snow. O pure red moth, but the sweet white kills! i ! And we thrill again to watch you, but we I know, but we know! I And there are three other verses which ' appeal more to us i£ that were possible. But

you must have the last verse. "We cannot leave it out. The scent of burning tussock on the Canterbury hills! The richness and the mystery that wakens like a lyre, . With the dreamess of a dreaming that never yet fulfils!— And we know it, and we know it, but we tove the moon of fire! It may possibly appear that we have yielded too readily to the temptation of quoting favourite poems. You may perhaps infer that we have been unfair to the authoress in so acting. But the numbers already laid before you are « very n«firibe quantity when the body oi Miss MacGay* Joetical work is taken into consolation. Add to this the fact, * previously stated, that no inroads have been made on her later productions. Thus we lay oui; simple tribute-a tribute of enthusiam-at the door S V rineer—a New Zealand singer indeed, whc * we had almost forgotten to state is also patriotic.