The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1898-06-26

Mr.. Stanton's Volume of Verse.
In view of the presence in Indianapolis of
Mr.. Frank l.. Stanton, the Atlanta poet
the following appreciative estimate of his
work, contributed by Mr.. Meredith Nichol-
son, is timely:
Songs of the SoiI' is the title of the
only volume that Mr.. Stanton has published
so far 1t might be assumed that book
made up entirely of verse written hurriedy
day by day for newspaper would hardly
stand critical examination but it is not
necessary to apologize for this handsome
volume on the score of the haste of it's
composition. Mr.. Stanton possesses natural
ly sense of literary proportion, and an
ear for melody. Perhaps it may be called
the journalistic instinct-this instant and
correct appraisement of material, and the
proper use of it. The newspaper analogy
may be continued in the observation that it
is with something of the good reporters
nose for news that Mr.. Stanton takes
texts for his poems. He is writing every
day for the average man who does not read
the poetry of the Elizabethans or even of
the Victorians, for that matter, but who
will read poem in the newspaper if it be
about something familiar and within COM
mon human experience. This average man
the robin and the mocking bird, not the
nightingale; so when he comes upon a
piece of verse that hits off unsteady the
scenes of his own neighborhood, with the
landscape he knows best for background.
he is made to feel that after all poetry Is
not wholly nonsense. So the poet who
would have an audience reports the world
as he finds it, not world that exists in
the work Of other men who live because
they reproduced through one art or another
their own environment
Those who take all forms of art SADLY
and demand that novels and poems shall
aim to reform something need not stop at
Mr. Stanton's doorstep. He does not merely
like the unreformed world as he finds it,
but he has enthusiasm for life-simple
sincere, hopeful, everyday life. Optimism
has no more devoted priest than he No
mournful jeremiade ever escapes him. He
is persistently and consistently cheerful.
1t is of his own Georgia that Mr.. Stanton
oftenest writes, sometimes in the dialect of
the country folk occasionally in negro dia
lect, again in polite English. One has a
feeling that he sings because he must
and 1t is only when the song is inevitable
when it is wholly spontaneous and from the
heart that 1.-The singing quality as it is
called, distinguishes the work of a poet
There is real exuberance in Mr. Stanton's
songs, and 1t is found in this book from
first to last. The initial poem sets the
pitch high, with an odorous description of
summertime in "Georgy''-the Georgia of
the country side and not of the Kimball
House, Atlanta There can be no doubt of
the poets sincerity when he says:
20 summertime in Georgy-I love to sing your
praise
Though I've got no voice fer singin', It's tune
love to raise,
When the birds is pantin'. chantin. an Jest
rantn' roun' the rills
With the juice o. ripe blackberries Jest a-drippin
from their bills!'
BY an easy and natural transition the
poet turns to 1.-THE Call of the Reapers."
which by its music and tender feeling sug-
,gests Charles Kingseys happier poems:
know that it is reaping-tme in all the fields of
Lee;
can hear the reapers singing Ger the meadows
calling me:
"And wherefore come you not to-day to reap the
golden gran?"
But I'll never the fields of Lee. nor reap with
them again.
| ''And wherefore come you not to-day?' they crv
across the wheat;
| And wherefore come you not?' the winds are
Ginning low and sweet;
And far and near. sweet sounds I hear from over
mount and main;
| But shall not the fields of Lee, nor reap in
| them again.
"oh, wherefore come you notT' The hand of
summer decks the sod;
| The world is like picture where the harvests
smile to God;
| There's yet late white rose for you in valley
| and in plain;
But shall not the fields of Lee where
blooms that rose. again.
"oh. wherefore come you not?" The doves have
| left their woodland nests,
| With the silver sunrise cleaning on their downy
| tender breasts;
| And they're calling to you soft: "Come homer
| But all their calls are vain;
| For shall not hear the birds sing in the fields
| of Lee again,
Oh, comrades. cease your crying. as We reap in
the fields of Lee;
| Ye have there so many reapers there is never
| need of me.
oh. doves leave not your nests nor call in tender
| tones and vain,
To him who hears. with falling tears. but cannot
come again.
| Reap on. We men and maids of Lee; for ye that
| must reap;
And 1 am reaping far away while ye your vigs
/ keep;
But there is no song upon my lips. nor golden is
| the grain,
| And 1 shall not see the fields of Lee nor reap
| with you againi
Humor of the quizzical, good-natured SORT
| is happily expressed by Mr. Stanton. This
/ is not the place for discussion of Amer
| lean humor, but it is a matter of constant
| interest that the outlook on life of so large
a proportion of our people is humorous. and
| that every part of the country so readily
responds when a particular locality laughs.
| Mr.. Stanton's verses have carried far and
| wide the humor of his own section. 1t is
homeIy and clean, like the humor OF Bret
| Harte and of Mr.. Riley, and il is of real
| value from the fact that 1t is so expressive
of the local life from which 1t springs. Here
for instance, is transcript from a Georgia
| village of lazy fellow who can take no joy
in fishing in May:
| Because the river bank is green.
The grass is soft an deep.
And where She shady willows lean
A Teller falls TO sleep