UNFORTUNATE POETS.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XII, Issue VI, 10 February 1894, Page 123

UNFORTUNATE POETS.

f'T'lH E lives of the poets is not a pleasant volume. Of all those spirits who have worked for the pleasure and profit of their fellow-creatures, the poets have ever been the worst paid, and the most unfortunate. Keats, Shelley, Poe, Burns, Chatterton, Byron, Cowper, Madox Brown, Heine, Alfred de Musset—all these names suggest as much of the mouinful in life as of the splendid in literature. Does not Ben Jonson record of the divine Spenser that *he died for want of bread in King street?' When the statue of Burns was unveiled in Scotland amidst an adoring populace, some sceptical person remarked : *He asked you for bread and ye gave him a stone.' The ‘stone' too often has been the fioet’s sole reward. The fault, however, does not always ie with the world, but is as often as not a consequence of the poetic temperament. Exaggerated sensitiveness, physical disease, temporary hallucination, madness, suicidal tendency, these more especially during the last hundred years have been the accompaniments of the divine afflatus; and we may well ask with Taine if there be a man living who could withstand the storm of passions and visions which swept over Shakespeare and end like him as a sensible citizen and landed proprietor in his small county. In a recent number of the Spectator appears a poem by William Watson, the yonnepoet who, it will be remembered, received a bounty of £2OO for a greatly admired poem in The Illustrated London News on the death of the late Poet Laureate. It was thought by many that this gift would shortly be followed by a greater honour, but whatever may have been intended, an incident which occurred almost immediately afterwards, and led to the painful necessity of placing the young poet under restraint, effectually for the time being dispelled his chance of the Laureatesbip. The following lines, pathetic in their import, strong in their sanity and rightness of feeling, and exquisite, almost Miltonic in fervour of execution, are the first utterance of the restored spirit : VITA NUOVA. Long hath she slept, forgetful of delight; At last, at last the enchanted princess earth Claimed with a kiss by spring the adventurer. In slumber knows the destined lips, and thrilled Through all the deeps of her unageing heart With passionate necessity of joy. Wakens and yields her loveliness to love. O ancient streams, O far-descended woods Full of the fluttering of melodious souls ; O hills and valleys that adorn yourselves In solemn jubilation ; winds and clouds. Ocean and land in stormy nuptials clasped. And all exuberant creatures that acclaim The earth’s Divine renewal; 10, I too With yours would mingle somewhat of glad song. I too have come through wintry terrors—yea Through tempest and through cataclysm of soul Have come and am delivered. Me the Spring, Me also, dimly with new life hath touched. And with regenerate hope, the salt of life; And I would dedicate these thankful tears To whatsoever Power beneficent. Veiled though his countenance, undivulged his thought. Hath led me from the haunted darkness forth Into the gracious air and vernal morn. And suffers me to know my spirit a note Of this great chorus, one with bird and stream And voiceful mountain—nay, a string, how jarred And all but broken I of that lyre of life Whereon himself, the master harp-player. Resolving all its mortal dissonance To one immortal and most perfect strain Harps without pause, building with song the world. William Watson.