New-York tribune., 1903-02-07
FIVE POETS.
Nerc Tolumes by English and Amer
ican Writers.

recent war in South Africa. only a very siii
proportion Of them could fairly claim 10 oe re-
n1eu1bered Among the few that are worthy
NJ tenrv Newbolts take a high place. IN
deed they arc perhaps the best OF all lot "iiiie
We recall with appreciation certain lines oE
Mr. Hardy and one two others, we are ho'
aware Of anv English poet whose TRANSACTIONS
with The great subject have resulted in as rlch
= sbesf of poems as that which the author OF
brakes Drum has. given US. Inc eNplaha
sion of his success lies in the sobrlety OF ms
aim and in the simplicity of his diction AVOID
ing the fearful seIf-consciousness which mas
trimmed up so many OF the poets who nave writ
Ten on the war even including Mr. hlphng' ne
has contented himself with the straightforward
expression Of precisely the emotions IN "hich
an the people Of England and many in other
countries have shared. Far more touchine
than any wouid-be solemn chant or bitter
+r~,r7,et blast. infinitely more impressive than
any lines adventitiously coored by the drag
sing in OF the mere superficial tumult and pas
sion Of war is this tender lyric:
THE ONLY SON.
q hitter wind toward the sunset blowing
What of the dales toInlght+ h e-ss are glowing.
In yonder gray old han What hres are si0"s'
What ring OF festal hght-
IN the great window as the day was dwindlng
old man stand; -. , ,,,5r;n.
His head was proudly held and his eyes kno4ihs'
But the list shook in his hand
q wind IF twilight there no word uttered
No sound of Joy or wall? - ,,+t.-e5.
a great fight and good death ne muttereo'
Trust him, he would not fail-
What Of the chamber dark where she was lying
For whom all life is done? ,na ;,s
within her heart she rocks a deao chho, CiS4ie'
My son. my little son.
These lines are characteristic. Mr. New
bolts sentiment is never mawkish; he never
forces the note His verses throughout are as
hey
r7snshin Above all he leaves the impression
Of 2 poet with something like an authentic
warrant for the Muse; not a great poet not a
master of new and haunting melody. but poet
all the same. His themes are varied Beside
The war pieces he gives US several DAINTY
s+udies in French forms. In short, his is VOL
un1e 10 be read with genuine pleasure ana TO
be pres erved.
II is interesting to contrast Mr.. Newbolt and
Mr Watson. Both men Of books. both are
well acquainted with that stream Of mlscella-
reous culture which. in modern poetry, seems
10 have taken the place OF the clear primeVal
fount OF song. Yet Mr.. Newbolt. whose poetic
outpourirgs are but incidental to his labor as
the editor OF monthly magazine, preserves In
his poems an fnvigorating freshness. Mr.. Wat
son who lives if We are not mistaken for
poetry alone, is as artificial though he had
rerr.snentlv exchanged the hills and meadows
~ the Wrist for the business environment of
iournalist OF England and Her Colonies he
says:
She stands thousand wirtered tree.
BY countless morns impaired;
Her broad roots coil beneath me sea
Her branches sweep the world:
Her seeds by careless winds conveyed
CIothe the remotest strand
New nations fostered in her shade,
Aad linking land with land
The figure presented here is not infelicitous,
end in the second half of the poem from which
We have taken the lines Mr. Watson develops
his idea effectively enough. Yet we feel in no
WAY impressed by his celebration of a subject
which has in late years greatly stirred mems
minds the mighty growth Of the British En-
pire and all that it means for the enrlcn1neh1
Of civilization: there is no thrill though thrlll
Is exactly what the occasion demands Instead
and what we say OF this composition may be
said of everything in the volume Of selected
Poems" which the author has compiled from
his writings in the last ten years-we have
uninsured thought Gnimpa ssoned accents,
and a general atmosphere of an intensely
literary" gentleman devisng verses like any
craftsman whose inspiration comes at call
There is much that is artistic in Mr. Watsons
work. There is no poetic fire
Sir RennelI Rodd is. like most of his country
men keen on paying poetic tribute to England.
The poem predxed 10 his Myrtle and Oak"
begins thus
Songs sung for island England
Go. r, cry winds way take
and elsewhere he takes up the theme again. as
in his Song of England" from which we
choose this fragment:
Oh England island England; if it has been my lot
To live long years in alien lands, with men VINO
do bu; love thee better who know each wind
The Wind tha1 stays the blossom, the wind that
buds the rose
somehow this leaves the reader cold. and, in
tact. that is his fortune where most Of Sir Rem
aeIl Rodds verses concerned He is little
better though much, in this:
THE DAISY.
with little white leaves in the grasses,
spread wide for the smile Of the sun
IT waits till the daylight passes
And close them one by one.
hsv. asked why It closed at even
And I Know what il wished TO say.
There are stars all night in the heaven,
And ] the star of the day
In single little volume Of nearly three hun
sired pages. entitled Poems Mr. Robert Tn
ser-uood Johnson has brought together the writ
ngs of a decade They illustrate extremely
-aried moods the love of nature and Of art,
.indling emotion for high ideals in public af-
airs and in the treatment of any motive, a
certain genial enthusiasm. Landscape senti-
,,ent and the subtle charm Of flowers are ex-
,ressed bv Mr. johnson with a suave touch.
lear dfction and firm technique are his salient
characteristics Some OF his best to be
,c,,n6 in the leading composition Of the third
ma last section of hIs book. the Italian Rhap
nd College