Ponkapog Papers [27]
liking for so gracious a lyric as The Flower-Seller, to select an example at random. Next to the plea- sure that lies in the writing of such exquisite verse is the pleasure of quoting it. I copy the stanzas partly for my own gratification, and partly to win the reader to "Wishmakers' Town," not knowing better how to do it.
Myrtle, and eglantine, For the old love and the new! And the columbine, With its cap and bells, for folly! And the daffodil, for the hopes of youth! and the rue, For melancholy! But of all the blossoms that blow, Fair gallants all, I charge you to win, if ye may, This gentle guest, Who dreams apart, in her wimple of purple and gray, Like the blessed Virgin, with meek head bending low Upon her breast. For the orange flower Ye may buy as ye will: but the violet of the wood Is the love of maidenhood; And he that hath worn it but once, though but for an hour, He shall never again, though he wander by many a stream, No, never again shall he meet with a dower that shall seem So sweet and pure; and forever, in after years, At the thought of its bloom, or the fragrance of its breath, The past shall arise, And his eyes shall be dim with tears, And his soul shall be far in the gardens of Paradise Though he stand in the Shambles of death.
In a different tone, but displaying the same sureness of execution, is the cry of the lowly folk, the wretched pawns in the great game of life:
Prince, and Bishop, and Knight, and Dame, Plot, and plunder, and disagree! O but the game is a royal game! O but your tourneys are fair to see!
None too hopeful we found our lives; Sore was labor from day to day; Still we strove for our babes and wives-- Now, to the trumpet, we march away!
"Why?"--For some one hath will'd it so! Nothing we know of the why or the where-- To swamp, or jungle, or wastes of snow-- Nothing we know, and little we care.
Give us to kill!--since this is the end Of love and labor in Nature's plan; Give us to kill and ravish and rend, Yea, since this is the end of man.
States shall perish, and states be born: Leaders, out of the throng, shall press; Some to honor, and some to scorn: We, that are little, shall yet be less.
Over our lines shall the vultures soar; Hard on our flanks shall the jackals cry; And the dead shall be as the sands of the shore; And daily the living shall pray to die.
Nay, what matter!--When all is said, Prince and Bishop will plunder still: Lord and Lady must dance and wed. Pity us, pray for us, ye that will!
It is only the fear of impinging on Mr. Young's copyright that prevents me reprinting the graphic ballad of The Wanderer and the prologue of The Strollers, which reads like a page from the prelude to some Old-World miracle play. The setting of these things is frequently antique, but the thought is the thought of to- day. I think there is a new generation of readers for such poetry as Mr. Young's. I ven- ture the prophecy that it will not lack for them later when the time comes for the inevitable rearrangement of present poetic values. The author of "Wishmakers' Town" is the child of his period, and has not escaped the ma- ladie du siecle. The doubt and pessimism that marked the end of the nineteenth century find a voice in the bell-like strophes with which the volume closes. It is the dramatist rather than the poet who speaks here. The real message of the poet to mankind is ever one of hope. Amid the problems that perplex and discourage, it is for him to sing
Of what the world shall be When the years have died away.
HISTORICAL NOVELS
IN default of such an admirable piece of work as Dr. Weir Mitchell's "Hugh Wynne," I like best those fictions which deal with king- doms and principalities that
Myrtle, and eglantine, For the old love and the new! And the columbine, With its cap and bells, for folly! And the daffodil, for the hopes of youth! and the rue, For melancholy! But of all the blossoms that blow, Fair gallants all, I charge you to win, if ye may, This gentle guest, Who dreams apart, in her wimple of purple and gray, Like the blessed Virgin, with meek head bending low Upon her breast. For the orange flower Ye may buy as ye will: but the violet of the wood Is the love of maidenhood; And he that hath worn it but once, though but for an hour, He shall never again, though he wander by many a stream, No, never again shall he meet with a dower that shall seem So sweet and pure; and forever, in after years, At the thought of its bloom, or the fragrance of its breath, The past shall arise, And his eyes shall be dim with tears, And his soul shall be far in the gardens of Paradise Though he stand in the Shambles of death.
In a different tone, but displaying the same sureness of execution, is the cry of the lowly folk, the wretched pawns in the great game of life:
Prince, and Bishop, and Knight, and Dame, Plot, and plunder, and disagree! O but the game is a royal game! O but your tourneys are fair to see!
None too hopeful we found our lives; Sore was labor from day to day; Still we strove for our babes and wives-- Now, to the trumpet, we march away!
"Why?"--For some one hath will'd it so! Nothing we know of the why or the where-- To swamp, or jungle, or wastes of snow-- Nothing we know, and little we care.
Give us to kill!--since this is the end Of love and labor in Nature's plan; Give us to kill and ravish and rend, Yea, since this is the end of man.
States shall perish, and states be born: Leaders, out of the throng, shall press; Some to honor, and some to scorn: We, that are little, shall yet be less.
Over our lines shall the vultures soar; Hard on our flanks shall the jackals cry; And the dead shall be as the sands of the shore; And daily the living shall pray to die.
Nay, what matter!--When all is said, Prince and Bishop will plunder still: Lord and Lady must dance and wed. Pity us, pray for us, ye that will!
It is only the fear of impinging on Mr. Young's copyright that prevents me reprinting the graphic ballad of The Wanderer and the prologue of The Strollers, which reads like a page from the prelude to some Old-World miracle play. The setting of these things is frequently antique, but the thought is the thought of to- day. I think there is a new generation of readers for such poetry as Mr. Young's. I ven- ture the prophecy that it will not lack for them later when the time comes for the inevitable rearrangement of present poetic values. The author of "Wishmakers' Town" is the child of his period, and has not escaped the ma- ladie du siecle. The doubt and pessimism that marked the end of the nineteenth century find a voice in the bell-like strophes with which the volume closes. It is the dramatist rather than the poet who speaks here. The real message of the poet to mankind is ever one of hope. Amid the problems that perplex and discourage, it is for him to sing
Of what the world shall be When the years have died away.
HISTORICAL NOVELS
IN default of such an admirable piece of work as Dr. Weir Mitchell's "Hugh Wynne," I like best those fictions which deal with king- doms and principalities that