The news & observer. [volume] (Raleigh, N.C.) 1894-current, 1898-01-02
A COLLECTION
OF VERSE,
Review BY j. w. Bailey, Editor Biblical
Recorder.

A1OOhS NOihC 1AOih thC puDllSueIS ny
thousands; but the range of Letters is
still quite limited. Upon reading the
sumptuous ''book numbers" of t.ine big
weeklies, one would think that Iitera-
ture is really popular; but go with me in
any direction, and for every home in
which new books are received and read,
/ will show you a hundred that never
come into possession by purchase of
other than school books.
True of general Literature, In respect
of poetry the facts are out of all pro-
portion worse. There is a popular no.
ton that there is nothing in poetry and
that poets are to be secretly despised,
publicly ridicued, and pitied between
times. This is the fault of the fools
who have taken themselves for poets.
not the fault of the people; they never
make such blunder without reason.
Now books are more than food or raj
ment, if the mind is more than the
body. If it is important to eat p1enti-
fully, heartily and wisely, it is more i'm
portant to read plentifuly, heartily and
wisely:- and if it is necessary to clothe
the body for decency's sake, how much
more the mind!
SO if literature is not popular, it is to
NC hCplOI0ls Anu HC WHO NOulu serve
his fellowmen cannot do a timelier or
better thing than to strive to get them
to cultivate an appetite and a taste for
literature.
OF all literature, poetry is the nectar.
OF all that is beautiful, p' is the
SOUL not merely the voice; l., try is
not the words, but the soul in the words.
The best OF poetry has not yet found
words to express itself. The popular
pr9Js ice against poetry has come
about by reason of as false a notion of
what poetry is as that of poets. 1t is
not measured lines, though metre is good
and helpful and beautiful; nor is il mea-
sured rhynling lines. which express
good sense The subimest poetry is in
that Bible on your tabler there the book
of job, or, II you like, the Psalms of
David, or the book of Ruth, or the Wis
ions of Isaiah. The highest feelings of
which mortals are capable must needs
be poetry; and it is as impossible to ex-
press these feelings in unpoetic forms
as for reverent being to approach God
in the language of the street
So, therefore, he who despises poetry
does himself great harm.
In the little volume by Professor
Sledd-head Of the department of
English in Wake Forest College-we
have not found a poem that does not APP
peal to us as genuine. If he Goes not
speak in the tones OF greatness or if he
has failed TO catch the popular notion
which are not for any one 10 say so
'soon-he has surely struck some of the
saddest and tenderest and sweetest
chords of life, and they hare responded
as to a chosen spirit
Now, for instance, let us take the poem
entitled sThe Mother"
VIII they not leave me in peace? Yes,
dear,
/ am coming soon,
What need of winters presence at rose
crowned rites Of June?
He brings her home in triumph. the
sweet young life he has won:
And | could rejoice in a daughter, had I
not lost a son.
Long since God took my others, and now
| am left alone:
For, though / am st;ll his mother. the
wife will claim her own.
How cold tonight was his greeting! He
called me simply mother
Those old sweet names of endearment so
soon he gives to another.
Oh, for one hour of the nights when he
sat by the hearth and read,
And twas to his voice / listened, and
not what the dull books said.
And often I'd fall to weeping-and yet
knew not why;
Tut then we older children must have
our meaningless cry.
\ moment of silence and weeping, and
then my tears have done:
May |, who have wept for nothing, not
weep for the loss Of a son?
But why is my loss so bitter? IT'S what
all mothers have known;
For, though we still are mothers, we
may not claim our own.
See how at one stroke he draws the
picture for you, and with what delicacy
OF touch he finishes it. You forget the
rhyme and word forms; you see the pic
ture and your heart moves in sympathy.
That Is poetry. OF course it is Truth,
the thought of many an injured heart
worthily clothed. And that is poetry.
In many respects others of these verses
tACcl tlllS UHc. LII ueScflDtlO0. Tor IN
stance, you may seek far to find a rarer
painting of an old-time scene, which
some still cherish, which all dream they
have known-a picture wrought in the
poets mind by music, in the wondrous
alchemy of which these long-gone
scenes will live for all generations:
Then far away the music seemed to die
Like voices on the wind. On we'll
known hills
/ watch the summer sunsets glory fail:
The weary teams with swinging traces
pass,
Their ears pricked to the sound Of opsn-
ing doors,
While loudly singing troop the negroes
home,
And from the well curb dusky maid
ems go
With dripping burdens poised upon their
heads.
Lights twinkle through the cabin walls
below,
Where sound of shuffling feet viii soon
be heard,
And laughter, high above the banjo's
twang.
pvt Il.