New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1904-05-14
GTENENERE.

IN The bells rang her dead!
God rest her eyes. wherein Love wrote
The vision Of the noomsday
And smOu!dered longer still
God rest her weary golden head
The queen of lovers she IS dead.
And for her soul pray We.
But it is hard TO see why we should be eX
pected to read this sort of thing. Suppose it is
properly romantic; suppose it IS clever. Does
it, when all its merits counted up, suggest,
even remotely, for the smallest fraction Of sec
ond, that the author has anything to say to us
that is actually worth hearing? If it were
merely beautiful. if it had verbal felicity rich
melody. it might pass. But it is only one more
bit Of facile versemaking. Miss Taylor flies, in
some Of her pages. at higher game, tries to be
thoughtful and even philosOphic but of her
graver notes ring true
Mr.. Scotland is somewhat in the same case.
The more ambitious verses in The Lyric
Bough" contain no poignant suggestion, and in
form they disappointing. On the other
hand this writer has moments in which he
pleases by virtue of certain spontaneity.
certain sweet vivacity. There is an engaging
quality in The Gypsy Wind" and in "A VernaI
Song" The first of these is spoiled by this
precious stanza:
For the low socitudes
The treetops whisper. each to each.
Y sLleL.eS WHEREIN lhuuoes
but the other is written, from beginning TO end.
with the same light and natural touch Here
it is:
a VERNAL SONG.
Who's with me? Who's with me?
Come. ye lads and lasses!
For the bird is in the tree,
,, And the south wind passes,
Making wooing melody
In the leaning grasses!
Every migrant Of the earth
Knows the sap mellow;
isEeTythins OF rowing birth
Feels the spring his fellow;
Capers PunchinellO
Wheresceer we look abroad.
10, the sky CareSSesi
Nq%s lips 1 peri and winGfowers NOD
Clean upon he woodland sod
ilolets and crosses
Every laneway hath .ts lure,
Every pain its pledges;
IEere - happiness BE- sure,
A!5 1o Were IN v iiis G &c s,7Sit,.
Down the messy lodges.
50. since JOY is in the land.
Let US rove, loving band
Where the south wind passes
hand n hand ha and in hand
through the leaning grasses!
MT CarInan has not even the mild fervor the
0'ollary sprlnglike atmosphere, of these unas-
Stunning lines in his very presumptuous volume,
Sappho: one Hundred Lyrics" Attempting TO
give US equivalents for the lost poems of the
immortal Greek lyrist he misses all the ele-
inents Of passion and beauty which we associ-
ate with her genius, and produces lines plainly
made in the library" every one Of them smell
ing OF the lamp. He is no end" clever. and
writes very neatly turned verse Unfortunately
since he has not a gmmer Of the classical spirit
IN him. his cleverness is a hindrance rather than
help. Modern modes Of polishing a poem III
beft the development of such motives as Mr.
Carman has attacked in this book a man of
genius like Lander could give TO a modern lyric
the loneliness and distinction Of a verftable an
uque- A writer of Mr. Carman's limitations
may labor unremittingly. and still the best that
he can put forth is some such obviously artj-
fetal composition as this:
! loved thee. Atthis in the long ago
n II men zen 5n 4 greet a. blenders were in flower
TH we we would often a the fall Of dusk
When the soft grdss-heads were an wet with deU
enc purple 1nlSl'd N the fading light
And the superb .na gnihcence OF love
Inc loneliness that saddens solitude
And The sweet speech Tat makes il durable
IN. The bitter bitter l9ngns and the keen desire
And the unutterable glad release
Within the temple OF tho holy night
o Atthis, how loved thee long ago
IN that fair persisted summer by the sea,
The Persian poet, Kamal ad-Din Isman Of
lsfahan. whose Hundred Love Songs" have been
put INTO English verse by Mrs Mumfo-d from a
translation made by Professor Louis II GRAY
may be described beguiling if unimportant
individual, adding little fragrance to the ORR
entail Garden in which for most Western read
ers. Omar hhayyam has hitherto bloonled- alone
AS a source OF philosophy, he is immeasurabIv
inferior TO that striking figure. His mind has
not rested on half many ideas his soul has
rot been stirred by half many impulses He
Is simply the intoxicated lover. beating his
breast and pouring forth alteration to the dansel
OF his choice. The sequence runs more or less
ia this wise:
what though the rose be rival 10 the sun
der check IS not ike thine. O gate ar fov,
hose OF the World, whose perfumes never cIovt
Lasht OF the World, whose day is never donei
When Wisdom sees thy face her calmness flies.
me cypress sees thee. and it's rival knows
me Morning Breeze Ger fair rose gardens blows
Breathes thy sweet perfume. and in envy dies -
Yet grieve not that grieve Soul OF the Sea
What is my heart that thou shouldst comfort Z.
WIN wine or song, with smile dance or WITT
Dust OF thy threshold is enough for me-
Yes. win kiss the dust beneath thy feet
Nor ask 10 share the wine cup in thv hand.
am a slave who waits on thy command
AND. TO- slave who finds his bondage sweet.
These amorous asseverations are repeated IN
u they cloy upon the reader. and he rejoices