A REMARKABLE INDIAN IN LONDON.

Otago Witness, Issue 3097, 23 July 1913, Page 75

A REMARKABLE INDIAN IN LONDON.

THE PEOPLE'S POET IN BENGAL. A very remarkable Indian is just now visiting ’ London—Rabindranath Tagore. And at the same time a collection of English poems in translations made by, him from his own writings in Bengali are having a iargil sale in England under th< title of “Gitnnjali” (Song Offerings}. Macmillan, 4s 6d. But not only are his songs getting to he known in England, they are already known all over India, as an article in the Contemporary Review by Rev. C. F. Andrews, of Delhi, shows. —The P'oet of Bengal. — “There is one name which stands out far above all others in the history of the present Indian Renaissance —Rabindranath Tagore,” he says. ‘‘For many centuries no such poet and musician has appeared in India. His songs and tunes are sung in crowded towns and remote villagers in Bengal; and far beyond the borders of his own country his name is held in reverence. Already his poems have been reproduced in other dialects of India. They have also been translated in a fragmentary form into the common medium of English. “A short story will partly illustrate my meaning. I was once in a village in the heart of the great Himalayan Mountains, not far from the borders of Tibet. A Bengali lad, about 10 years old, had wandered up there, impelled bv that roving instinct which so many Indian boys possess. Late one evening we were silting in company with the villagers, when suddenly the Bengali lad began to cinq one of the songs of Rabindranath Tagore. The dialect was strange to the mountaineers, hut they could catch the drift of the words, and could fed the heart of the young singer going out into bis song. They swayed backwards and forwards, seated on the ground, moved by the power

of the song and stirred by deep emotion. So wide is the influence of Rabindranath’s poetiy and music in India itself. —They Make for Peace.— “The most difficult of all tests now being applied to these songs of the East — the test of translation, not in fragments, but in complete volumes, into a Western tongue. A small book, called ‘ Gitanjali, lias been the first to appear, and its appreciation by those who are best able to judge has been whole-hearted, ihe poems have in no way suffered eclipse in their strange and foreign .environment. They seem rather to have gained a new and added dignity. Stopford A., Brooke writes of them : 4 They make for peace —peace breathing from Love. And because they all spring from union with undying Love, they appear in beauty —in a thousand shapes of beauty.’ “Here are some typical quotations from Rabindranath in order that the cqlour and atmosphere, as it were, of Bengali poetry in its noblest form may be tolt by the English reader. —Two Songs.— “The first is taken from the poet's Songs of Childhood ‘The sleep that flits on baby's eyes, does anyone know from whence it comes ? ‘Yes, there is a rumour that it lias its dwelling where, in a fairy village among the shadows of the forest, dimly lit with glow-worms, there hang two timid buds of enchantment, from there it comes to kiss babys eyes. ‘The smile that flickers on baby's lips when lie sleeps, does anyone know where it was born ? ‘Yes, there is a rumour that a young pale beam of a crescent moon touched the edge of a vanishing autumn-cloud, and there the smile was first born in the dream of a dew-washed morning, the smile that flickers on baby’s lip<s when lie sleeps. ‘The sweet, soft freshness that blooms on baby's limbs, does anyone know where it was hidden long ago? ‘Yes, when the mother was a young girl, it lay pervading her heart in tender and silent mystery of love, the sweet, soft freshness that has bloomed on baby’s limbs. “I would give next an illustration of his dramatic power from a poem which I have only in manuscript: — ‘The morning came, but my servant appeared not. ‘Doors were all open, the water was not drawp from the well; my servant had been out all night. My morning meal was not ready, my clothes wore all lying unfolded. ‘As the hours passed by, my anger grew, and I devised hard punishments for him. At the last he came, late in tlie morning, and bowed low. ‘I called out angrily ; “Go forth from my presence and never see my face again.” ‘He looked at me, and remained silent, and then said in a low, husky voice: “My little daughter died last night.” And without another word he went to his daily task.” —The Eternal Home. “I take a third from ‘Gitanjali’ itself: ‘ln one salutation to Thee, my God, let all my senses spread out and touch this world at Thy feet. ‘Like a rain-cloud in July, hung low with its burden of unshed showers, let all my mind bend down at Thy door, in one salutation to Thee. ‘Let all ray songs gather their diverse strains with a single current, and flow to a sea of silence, in one salutation to Thee. ‘Like a flock of homesick cranes flying night and day back to their mountain nests, let aIT my life take its voyage to its eternal home, in one salutation to Thee.’ —The Hero of Bengal.— “More than any other writer, Tagore represents the full flower of the Renaissance in Bengal both in his ideals and in his literary, work. His fame has come to the full in'recent years; but his powers have clearly not yet reached their limit. His poetry has continually taken a deeper and more universal tone. It is leaving the precincts of Bengal and faring forth into the wider world. What the future holds in store for such a writer no one can predict. “But while Rabindranath’s influence has spread ‘- t beyond his own country, Bengal g. still, and ever will be, the object of his love, the inspirer of his songs. What Shakespeare did for England in the days of Elizabeth, Rabindranath has done for modern Bengal. He has given vital expression, at a supreme moment in history, to the rising hopes ot his nation. He has made Bengal conscious of its own destiny. In that country of music and song, The prophetic son! of the wide world, Dreaming of Kings to conic, has found at last its appointed end in and through his poems.” —His Secret.— “Scattered among the poems arc some which are prayers of the same surpassing beauty, one of which we must cpiote in full,” savs a critic in the Common wealth. ‘This is my praver to Thee, my Lord—strike, strike at the root of penury in my heart. . Give me the strength lightly to bear rny joys and sorrows. Give me the strength to make ray love fruitful in service. Give me the strength never to disown the poor or bend my knees before insolent might. Give me the strength to raise my mind high above daily trifles. And give me the strength to surrender my strength to Thy will with love.’ ‘•All through the poems there is the sense of the Divine Presence with all who labour and suffer and serve. It is by learning to love our brother-men, dividing our earnings among them, that we are

to find Him in Whom alone our weary souls find rest. Passage after passage of the Gospels comes to mind as one reads ; ‘ Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren ye have done it unto Me.’ ‘ Take My yoke upon you and learn of Me, for I am meek and lowly of heart.’ —How Did This Man Attain?— “.And then one asks. What is the secret of it all ? How did this man attain to this blissful realisation of the Presence? “AncPthe answer is that he has trodden the way of all Saints. We learn that at first he was content to study natural objects, to write novels and plays; then came a period when he wrote ‘ the most beautiful love poetry in his language,’ and then, in his thirty-fifth year, he had a great sorrow, and from that time onward his art grew deeper and became religious and philosophical.”