New-York tribune., 1900-03-10

colored by Imagination Witness this neatly
turned confession:
When my desire has set itself upon thing and
strives to win II,
And Wisdoms methods will not gain, L use
a little Folly in it.
Sometimes Mr.. Terrence is at pains to state
with all his art thought obvious that to
enjoy il we want even art than he can
give. He says, for example:
Now Patience is the hurtfullest Of all the thorns
my Garden wears,
And yet the sweetest of them all is the white
bud that Patience bears.
This is unmpeachable in it's moral. Of course.
But we find this book most interesting, most
practical, when it puts forth fresher thought,
or, at all events, says what it has to say with
touch really piquant and charming. If Mr.
Terrence is worth reading. and. in fact, excites
some sympathy and admiration, with expecta-
tions of interesting work in the future, it is be-
cause he is capable Of verses like these:
The wise say that life's not worth
a barley-corn when all is done.
Well, then-and not till then-Iu try
the granary behind the sun.
Doubt everything" the Thinker said
when l was parch'd with Reasons drought
Said he. Trust me, I've probed these thlhgs'
have utter faith in me,-and DOUBT
The worlds great rule is. Give and take;
and so that Custom may not sInotner'
I'll give Doubt freely with one hand
and take Faith freely by the olnef
Now Ito be brief'' the Preacher said.
each chose himself, the path he's vending;
But has each thought upon the end?'
And Youth said, us there then an ending?"
I envied the brown diver when
he brought the pearl to where read
But envy had not known my heart
when the green waves closed Ger his mead
The wise man said. Beware of Love;
behold its end is Ash and Rue!
'Ho. no." cried Youth, this heart OF mine
is braver than l ever knew.
Since Mr.. Terrence can write verses clever
as these hope he will learn to avoid concefts
as amateurish and unpoetical as the one en-
bodied in the following lines:
Night is a woman vaguely veiled
and made to WOO see her now;
The newborn moon is suddenly
her slender. golden, arched eyebrow.
Mr. Richard Burton declares in his introduc-
ton TO Miss Curtis's "One Hundred Quatrains"
that before the eyes of every lover of Omar II
would seem as if there hovered dim. fair
creature beckoning to the endeavor to ex-
press in still more perfect phrase the magic
melodies of that Poet OF the Mystic Vine
This may be true but doubt It, and to Mr.
Burton's question. Who has not felt the lure
of that call?' boldly reply, Every lover OF
Omar who has a genuine appreciation OF the
only English version of him that is poetical-
FJtzGerald's-and who has a fitting reverence
course, sincere in believing that she has both
but her book shows that she has nevertheless
fallen victim to of the most deplorable
fads of modern times, the so-called cult of
Omar Khayyam. FitzGerald's translation is
unique masterpiece if ever there was one. Imi-
tations of it are violations. No who has
attempted TO tread in his footsteps has ever
achieved anything but the commonplace If
Mr.. Burton really thinks that in Mr.. lie Gal
liennes quatrains there felicities that
overmatch like places in the older rendering
are sorry for Mr.. Burton The most that
can be said for the growing band OF
"Omarites" is that one two Of them, hav-
ing made a study of the Persian original have
added to knowledge OF the poets philoso-
ply. But this service has been Of small
account If not absolutely superduous. Omar's
value has, indeed, been absurdly exaggerated
| by almost every one save FftzGerald himself
If we unshrinkingly tell ourselves the truth in
this matter will admit that Omar is Of
value to us only in so far as he gave Fitz-
Gerald occasion for producing a volume Of
poetry that is much his it is the Persian's
We need nothing Of Omar. We want
nothing more Of him. Half the fervid talk
about him that hear is twaddle, and all the
new "translations' of him deserve the same
epithet. Certainly, there is poetry-where
poeticaI reason would be the only Justify
ing their existenee-in these quatrains by Miss
Curtis. We quote few specimens follows:
From deaths dark stirrup-cup we may not
shrink
But kiss the shadowy brtm. and fearless drink,
For all must leap the precipice of Fate
When each has stood his moment on the brink.
Out, out l sent my soul to sound life's we'll,
And swift returning, Of its quest to tell:
Il the pilgrim and the pilgrimage;
Can fashion life Of heaven 1t cried, 'or hell"
And hark! This scheme that I myself propose
The nightingale enlarges to the rose:
Drink, drink Beloved; ah, Beloved drink
Flush those pale petals ere they droop and
close"