The Colfax gazette. [volume] (Colfax, Wash.) 1893-1932, 1901-09-20

tinguiSh, rising clear and strong above
the chorus, a note so true and rich and
beautiful that he stops, convinced that
somewhere in the throng a real song
ster is lifting his voice.
Evidently the editors Of The Atlantic
Monthly think they have discovered
such a singer, for in the August num-
Der Of that ancient and honorable Bos-
ton publication is printed a somewhat
remarkable poem. The length of the
contribution viii first strike the reader
for the poem covers no less than three
and Onehalf pages of the magazine.
The long poem in The Atlantic is in
blank verse. 1t is a mOnolOguc, the
theme being taken from mythology.
All these are surprising features to find
in magazine poetry Of this materialiStiC
day. The author daring enough to
print 1J5 lines of blank verse is Mr.
Arthur Stringer He is said to be q
young man who has previously attract
ed attention not only by the merit of
his short verses, but by his prose fic-
ton.
He would be bold critic who would
attempt to find flaws in such an am
bilious piece of verse as that on which
the autOcratic editors of The Atlantic
have set their solemn seal Of approval.
One almost hesitates to say that it is
really good for fear Of intimating that
it might have been bad and still have
been printed in those ariStOcratic pages.
The title Of the poem is "Heph3s-
tuS," the name of a character III
mythology. This HephHstus, 1t seems,
finding that his wife Aphrodite is loved
by his younger brother Ares, gives the
goddess to Ares along with q lot of
good advice and large chunks Of philOs-
Ophy. 1t is this mOnolOgue which Mr..
Stringer has voiced in blank verse.
Perhaps the editors of The Atlantic
will permit the observation that the
thoughts supplied by Mr.. Stringer to
the mythical Heph9stus are expressed
with much beauty Of imagery, in eX-
ceedingly musical meter, and that the
line of thought is Withal quite enter
tanning i'll its evolution. Probably the
well versed critic Of poetry could point
out many other technical eXcellenceS
in this apparently classic production,
but the average reader will be satisfied
to know that the poem is one well
worthy not only of reading and re-
reading, but Of reproduction in much
more permanent form.
A few selections will enable you to
judge for yourself Of the quality Of Mr..
Stringer's verse. Take her, 0 Aresn'
Heph1stUs eXclaims. Then he eX-
presses his grief at yielding:
To you this surgng bosom soft with dreams,
This body fashioned Of Hgean foam
And languorous moonlight. But l give you not
The eluding soul that in her broods and sleeps,
And ne'er was mine of old, nor can be yours.
The shell give you, Ares, not the song
Of murmuring winds and waves once haunting it;
The cage, but not loves wings that come and go.
I give you them, light brother, as the earth
Gives up the dew, the mountain side the mist.
Then HephHstus, after a farewell
apostrophe to the sad face that
cleaned so like a flower" speaks thus
of his love:
I loved her once, 0 Ares
l loved her once as waters love the wind,
| / sought her once as rivers seek the sea;
Then fell the change. Some hand unknown to US
Shook one white petal from the perfect flower,
And all the world grew old. All, who shall say
When summer dies or when is blown the rose?
Who, who shall know just when the quiet star
Out Of the golden west is born again.
Or when the cleaning saddens into night?
Then Ares is warned that he, too, in
turn will lose this ocean born daughter
of unrest:
Though close you hold her in your huRgering arms,
Yet will your CROPPING soul but lean to her
Across the dusk hill to lonely hill.
Heph@stus makes an end by telling
Ares that. although he shall never for
get the love he has lost, in time the
sorrow will pass and he will gladly
Go down among the toilers OF the earth
And seek the rest, the deeper peace that comes
OF vast endeavor and the dust Of strife
There my calm soul shall know itself, and watch
The golden sanGaled seasons come and go,
| Still godlike in its tasks of little things.
Surely it Is not too much to say that
! this sounds strangely like real poetry.
Yet we have been assured that in this
age no true poetry is being written and
that all the real poets are sleeping the