New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1896-03-08
in Mr. Blunt's poetry. moreover the Vitality VI
a passionate imagination.
AN IMPRISONED CELT.

Mr. RIunt ,s never so passionate that he must
,rarsgress the limits Of his form. sonnet VIII
,oa oil that he cares to say. For the Celtic
ro,,rre NJ Mr.. W. p. Yeats there Is nothing IN
form, which curbs his genius, and he, too, always
ras,oc.s the rhythm in which he Is writing. Yet
h,s volume O. poems" copeland Day. IS
surused from cover to cover by that witchery
which carries the imagination far from all
thought of mere rhyme or rhetoric. In some
wavs this Is one OF the most interesting DOCKS
q, the decade. A Drudcal magic burns IN MT
Yeats's own lines. glimmer or irish iaery -
thrown over every poem. and through anu
through the racial peculiarities OF the man. VIII
clear across his work. there runs the marx OF
predestined lyrist, the sign of a born poet. lhis
writer would never sit down to the evolution OF
introspective sonnets. His tongue Is loosed III
half wild chants by the memories OF irish KINGS
who "broke the ridge OF battle with their HANDS :
he diyines the mysteries OF the haunted lrish
moors and woodlands. he sings strange, new
dreamy. far-a way romance. song OF heroic love
and fierce combats by the angry sea-n the hear'
and texture OF his work he Is poet.
Side by side with a hot sympathy Tor the
troubles OF his nation there runs the tenderest
love for tender things the poet watching cease
,essly for the fluter OF beauty's robe, and never
missing III DecduSc tHc 'ldliiS VI h"'''"" 49,
SORROW are pressed constantly upon his vision.
The curious little plays in his book. The COUNT
ess Cathleen' and Tine Land of Hearts De-
sire" are two weird improvlsations Of phan-
tasmal charm: not dramatic In any strict sense
NJ tbe term but dramas as OF some sorcerer's
world where magic lights the stage and the
characters act from motives barely comprehen-
sjble to mortal minds. Yet Mr.. Yeats never
really sepa rates his world from ours. Therein
lies his power. He transports his reader TO a
new region but he does not fool him: he Keeps
him in a place of ideal realities and fantastic
truths So much Of his poetry Is new and
beautiful, so much Of 1t Is impregnated with the
fragrance OF Queen Mabs enchanted gades,
that 1t Is difficult to choose an Illustration, espe-
clally as some Of the best pieces, like The Rose
of Battle" which begins finely
Rose OF all Roses Pose Of all the World!
are too long to he reproduced in this place. But
the song given below. though one Of his minor
pieces. is fair specimen OF what Mr.. Yeats can
do II Is supposed TO be sung by the faeries over
the outlaw Michael Dwyer and his bride, who
had escaped into the mountains:
We who are old. old and gay
o. Old
Thousands OF years. thousands Of years.
II all were told:
Give 10 these children. new from the world,
Silence and loTe;
And the long dewdropping hours OF the night.
And the stars above:
Give to these children. new from the world,
Rest far from men.
Is ANYTHING better. anything better?
Tell IL us then:
Us who are old. old and gay;
o. so old
Thousands OF years. thousands Of year,
II all were told.
The lines call up memories of Blake, with
whose mystical genius Mr.. Yeats H. peculiarly
In sympathy. and behind this recollection there
come echoes ~ tho Elzabethans. drifting miss
~ their indcscrIbable glamor These mists are
always present In the poetry OF Mr. Yeats. never
obscurlng the sense. but Just yelling the sub
stance Of his song In the mysterious shadows OF
dim Celtic dreams.