"A BOTCH OF WILD PANSIES."

Observer, Volume 7, Issue 335, 9 May 1885, Page 8

"A BOTCH OF WILD PANSIES."

We have received froiia the author, MrW;. R Wills — the bard of Otahuhu — a copy of his recently-published " Bunch of WildPansies." Mr Wills is an old and esteemed contributor to this journal, and many of the " pansies " blossomed originally in its pages. The collection of these wild flowers of poesy— the tying up of the bunch, so to spealt, ! in book form — will doubtless afford satisfaction to Mr Wills' many admirers. More than one hundred poems are contained in the attractive little volume before us, some of them the work of the authon=Pearlier years. Mr Wills is a native of Bath, England, and Avas born in the year 1837. He early gave evidence of the ' possession of poetic tastes, and exhibited a remarkable facility for expressing his thoughts and feelings in verse. Many years ago he told the Castlegreen Young Men's DebatingSociety at Bristol that "Poetry means creating ; therefore true poetry is the creation of a sublime imagination. True poetry soars heavenward. Poetry fires thetdreams of youth, beautifies the ideas of manhood, and sanctifies the declining days of old age." More than twenty years since Mr Wills published two volumes of poems — "Blossoms of Early Life " and " Songs for the Weary,'* and since that time he has been a constant contributor to periodical literature.

Much, of our modern poetry is marred by its obscurity. Swinburne is not always lucid ; Robert Browning is frequently incomprehensible ; "Walt Whitman, the American poet, about whose merits as a writer there is a conflict of opinion, is even more incomprehensible than Browning. Although. Mr Wills' modest " Bunch of WildPansies" does not claim fpr a moment to rank- with, the productions of these master minds, his work yet has one superior merit as compared with theirs : his meaning is never obscured — it can be grasped by the meanest capacity, it is' invariably as pellucid as a crystal spring. We have not the space at command to quote as largely from Mr Wills' book as we could wish, but the temptation to make up a small nosegay for the delectation .of our readers from the big bunch before us is irresistible. Opening the book haphazard, we come to "New Zealand" (page 167), a little poem to our thinking as fresh and bright as any to be found in the coHection. As we read it we seem to see wwh the author's eyes "the rippling waters of the Waitemata," to hear the music of the bellbirds, and to feel the fresh, cool, evening breeze. We must make room for one verse of this : —

The rippling waters Of the Waitemata Dance light and joyous To the evening breeze. The bell-bird chimelh Pleasant anthems To the locust's chirping On the myrtle trees ; And orange blossoms Around me falling, And rosebuds "smiling "Where the eye may rest ; The bright stars quiver On the flowing river Like rubies shimmer On an angel's breast.

"Gordon of Khartoum" (page- 190) is a more ambitious attempt. It tells the story of Gordon's heroism, and of how he fell. The description of the gallant soldier's weary waiting for the succour that came too late to save him is as good as anything in the poem. We can only quote a few lines : —

With beating heart that never knew despair, He turns his weary steps, patrols the town, Speaks words of hope to faithful hearts, to friends Of doubtful trust warning of justice dread, Smiles on the little children in the street ■ Who look with piteous eyes to him for bread He cannot give ; and sad .and bitter pang Will rend his heart, and agony pent up Will burst its bounds, and cry, " How long ! — O, Lord !— How long ?"

Pressure on our space compels us to conclude this brief notice of Mr Wills' pleasant little book, and in doing so we venture to express the hope that this journal may in. the future, as it has in the. past, be the means of giving to the world many more of the emanations from Mr Wills' facile pen.