The Scranton tribune. [volume] (Scranton, Pa.) 1891-1910, 1896-02-08

POEMS B. Ernest McGafrey. Cloth.
lsmo. 2s7 PIP. New York: Dodd. Mead
& Co.
Mr. McGaffey has a lyrical tempera-
ment and q good trick of using rhythm
ic and sonorous words. AS an artiiicer
of verse most OF which is euphonious
and some of which has meaning he
ranks well forward among the minor
writer's OF what Is eXpressively II not
very definitely called newspaper
poetry" He Is, too, one of the most
prolific Of these writer's. In the pres
ent tasty volume there are 1926 poems.
at least 100 Of which could have been
spared to advantage, because they have
no reason for enduring existence. They
were, perhaps, good enough as time
copy" in the newspaper Office, where
"pOmes" are ground out, like other
newspaper filling. by the yard to corre-
spond with the exigencies OF the make.
up: but preserved seriously, they fall
on ones taste and begin to cause re-
breaches of the conscience that journal
ism should by it's merclfulness to such
contributors as Mr.. McGaffey put real
literature to so much useless annoy
ance. However. we do not wish TO be
understood as condemning the present
poet by wholesale and without near
ing. Below are three OF his best poems,
selected from that line OF activity In
which his muse Is at her best, namely.
Songs and Lyrics. The first is entitled
"Vae Victis:"
] sing the woe Of the conquered, . wind
ing-sheet for the slain,
Oblivion's gulf for those who fell, VINO
struggled and strove In vain.
As of old, mid the plaudits of thousands.
may the victor in triumph stand.
While the blood Of the vanquished trickies
dovn the red dens the Welding sand.
For the living the martial music, and the
clustering laurel wreath;
Let the dead rust on forgotten, az d
sword In rusty sheath.
On the face of youth and health and
strength should the blessing OF sun
A single shadow may well suffice the
face that turns to the wall
And he who has taken a mortal hurt In
the strenuous battle Of life,
Let him creep away from the dust and
din from the arduous toll and strife.
Let him 20 as a wounded animal goes,
alone and with glazing eye,
To the depths of the silent Businesses.
in silence there to die.
For the PROV of the ship rides high and
free that battles the savage gales,
And the wind and rain Is q requiem for
the wrack OF the ship that fails.
Which, as a new way Of saying that
nothing succeeds like success" is not
bad. The next selection we have
marked for reproduction Is called The
Cry of the Toilers:"
Far to the clouds ascending.
over the darkness trending,
Wailing and never ending
Floats up fated cry;
FIXED in poverty's inches,
In novels dens, and bitches.
Starved In the midst of riches
We die, we die. we die
Those who have mirth and madness
Mock at the wrath of sadness.
Joy shall be theirs, and gladness
Skies that are blue and fair;
These shall with thirst be burning
Prone on the worlds wheel turning
BY the steep hillsides learning
The lesson of despair
Little their time for sleeping.
Sowing but never reaping.
-- Eyer the vigil keeping
Watchfully, night and day;
Strong in their dull persistence,
Breasting the waves resistance
Just for q bare existence.-
So runs their world away.
Still do their hearts aspire
Yearning for something higher,
AS from their souls the fire
or haplsss craving springs:
Scourged BY the thongs and lashes
Bleeding from cruel gashes,
Crucified-upward -hashes
This cry Of theirs that rings,
High in the heavens o'ec US,
Resonant and sonorous
Blending its mighty chorus
With drifting wind and rain;
Like to a vague outreaching
Despairing, yet beseeching,
The cry Of full heart teaching
I lnnptnu a TO
Sorrow their lips unsealing
Famine and woe revealing,
Into the midnight pealing
Echoes the shpddering cry:
I'VE whom stern fate tosses
Lone, on a sea OF losses.
Christ OF the thorns and crosses
We die, We die, We die"
The last selection has Travelled far in
the newspapers. and is probably famil-
lar to many who read these lines. 1t
Is called Songs Unsung'':
Sweet the song of the thrush at dawn
When the grass lies wet with spangled
dew:
Sweet the, sound of the brooks low
Mid , reeds and rushes wandering
Clear and pure is the west winds mur.
Auat SiooHS III tHe DTdHcHeS all uuy
long;
But the songs unsung are the sweetest
music
And the dreams that die are the soul
OF song.
The fairest hope is the one which faded
The brightest leaf is the leaf that fell:
The songs that leaped from the lips OF
sirens, .r.... 20, !, "a.
Dies away in an old sea-shell
Far to the heights of viewless fancy
The souls swift flight like a swallow
goes,
For the note unheard is the birds best
And the bud unblown is the reddes!
rose. ...
Deepest thoughts are the ones unspoken
hears:
Most great joys bring a touch of silence
Greatest grief is in unshed tears.
What we hear Is the neeting echo.
A song dies out, but q dream lives on;
The rose-red tints Of the rarest morn.
ing
Are lingering yet In distant dawn.
Somewhere. dim in the days to follow
And far away in the life to be,
Passing sweet, IL a song OF gladness,-
The spirit-chant of the soul set free.
Chords untouched are the ones we wait
for
Tha. never rise from the harp unstrung