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New Zealand Tablet, 4 July 1918, Page 26

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Rose Kavanagh . * Among the group of Irish writers that sat at the feet, of Father Matt Russell was Rose Kavanagh, a dear Irish girl beloved by all who knew her, and like most people so loved destined to die young. We expressed a regret that no one among Father Matt's disciples had given us his biography, and that expression brought us a beautiful letter from Rose Kavanagh's sister,, together with the little memorial volume" of Rose's poems edited with an introduction by Father Russell" himself. That dear old sac/art bears touching witness to the beautiful character of Rose—the wild Irish Rose whose name so well became her. He quotes a- verse of Malherbe's as appropriate to her story, and gives us a perfect translation of it: Mais elle etait du mond ou les plus belles choses Out le pire destin ; Et, rose, elle a vecu ce que vivent les roses L'espace d'un matin. She was of a wprld too prone to give Saddest fate to fairest flowers. A rose, she lived as the roses live Through a few bright morning hours. A Letter "Rose Kavanagh," says an American writer, "was' one of the best and loveliest characters that I ever knew." The following extract from one of her letters to Father Russell gives us a glimpse of the soul of the "white Rose of green Tyrone" :—"lt is not alone that I liked the corncrake ; its song used to have a soothing effect on me. So had another very dissimilar thingto drive hard through a bog on a frosty, moonlight night; and yet another thing which was strongest of allto think I should some day succeed in literature or art, and get rich enough to go to Italy and sail through Venice in a gondola. ) But I am not coming much speed on that road, since, instead of being away in London with all my armor on in the struggle for success, it is' sitting here in the sunshine I am, nursing my little old cough. Thanks be to God for the same sunshine, however. I believe .if it lasts some time longer I shall be as well as ever. Such a good harvest time has not been for years, they say; nearly all the

corn is stacked 'already, and then it is so dry ! What a wonderful stillness there is among the hills in September ! . . . . Dublin ought to be pretty hot now, with the asphalt soft and springy under one's feet. I miss the: National Library a good bit, but one can't have everything. And here. I have my own people, and the sun, and the birds, and such landscape-pictures every day as make little of the best of painting." "Thank God for the Sunbeams" Father Matt published the above letter in the Irish Monthly, ' and another Ulster poet, "Magdalen Rock," wrote the following verses after reading it: p % , ° Thank God for the happy sunbeams Yellowing glen and brae. Thank God for the light and sweetuess Of the September day, When yet your eyes had vision On earth God's things to view, Although in dreams Elysian Your spirit heav'nward flew. Thank God for the heart He gave you, • ' Tender and pure and bold, For the sufferings that cleansed it As fire does rough, red gold. Thank God your words can reach us, Though years away have flown, Brave lessons still to teach us, White Rose of green Tyrone. Katharine Tynan's Tribute Dora Sigerson, who went to join Rose in Heaven the other day, and Katharine Tynan, now Mrs. Hinkson, were dear friends of Rose Kavanagh in the old days in Dublin when all three were learning to write beautiful verses. HI ere is a pen-picture in which Katharine puts Rose before our eyes in all the winsome charm of her personality: "She alwavs looked far stronger than her state warranted —tall and handsome, with a dear fresh Irish beauty that delighted one. It was the most honest face in the world, with brave grey eyes, and a country brownness over the clear tints, as if it loved the sun and the breezes. 1 used to call her the White Rose. I remember that her fine forehead was white under the beautiful brown hair that rippled off it nobly. There was scarcely ever a face and form that expressed more truly the fair soul within. Once an old peasant in the street with a registered letter to post and very uncertain of ways and means, and very distrustful of city folk, caught her by the arm as she passed the portico of the Post Office. ' You've got a good face,' he said, ' and maybe you'll tell me what to do with this.' An instinctive judgment which it was not difficult to make in her case. With her indeed, it was—- ' A sweet attractive kind of grace, A full assurance given by looks, Continual comfort in a face.' " Her Poems Of her poems Yeats says: "Rose Kavanagh has left but a little bundle of songs and storiesthe mere May blossoming of a young inspiration whose great promise was robbed of its fulfilment by an early death. Readers of future Irish anthologies of Irish verse will know the name of Kavanagh from ' Lough Bray,' and ' Saint Michan's Churchyard,' but they will not know the merry genial personality that produced them. . . In ' The Northern Blackwater ' Miss Kavanagh seems to me to have reached a delicacy of thought that reminds one of Kickham at his best. The last verse begins finely with— Once in the May-time your carols so sweet Found out my heart in the midst of the street'— and ends with a note of that tender sadness so very near to all that she has written. Was it the shadow

of the tomb? '.'.' ".' Her- poems are full v 0 most delicate expressions and tender music. ... . I often found myself repeating these lines from her ' Lough Bray —.- 'The'amber ripples sang all day, - • And singing spilled their crowns of white Upon the beach, in thin, pale spray That streaked the sober sand with light.' To Anne" •We close, this notice of Rose Kavanagh with a few stanzas of a poem addressed to her sister in New Zealand, and with our thanks to that sister for sending us the little book which recalled to our memory one of the fairest and best of the daughters' of our mother, Erin— In the white waves of moonlight thy footsteps I trace, In the green breezy broom know thy sweet subtle grace; Every flower in the bud and each leaf on the tree Blows and glows with a glory they have borrowed from thee... * ... Every tassel of dew on the roses L tend— Every fair hope and blessing high heaven doth, send— Every triumph of right over might, over wrong, Wears the charm of thy smile—takes the ring of thy song... , • As of old thou canst mould all my life—not its. partAs I sleep with my face to the land where thou art; And my hot heart leaps up from its dreaming to seek, But in vain, for the touch of thy soft vanished cheek.