The Advance of English Poetry in the Twentieth Century Part 23

Witter Bynner--the spelling of whose name I defy any one to remember, and envelopes addressed to him must be a collection of curiosities--was born at Brooklyn on the tenth of August, 1881. He was graduated from Harvard in 1902, and addressed his _Alma Mater_ in an _Ode To Harvard_, published in book form in 1907. In 1917 he collected in one attractive volume, _Grenstone Poems_, the best of his production--exclusive of his plays and prose--up to that date.

One who knew Mr. Bynner only by the terrific white slave drama _Tiger_, would be quite unprepared for the sylvan sweetness of the Grenstone poems. Their environment, mainly rural, does not localize the sentiment overmuch; for the poet's mind is a kingdom, even though he is bounded in a nutsh.e.l.l. The environment, however, may be partly responsible for the spirit of healthy cheerfulness that animates these verses; whatever they lack, they certainly do not lack purity and charm. Far from the madding crowd the singer finds contentment, which is the keynote of these songs; happiness built on firm indestructible foundations. Some of the divisional t.i.tles indicate the range of subjects: _Neighbors and the Countryside, Children and Death, Wisdom and Unwisdom, Celia, Away from Grenstone_, where homesickness is expressed while travelling in the Far East. And the tone is clearly sounded in

A GRACE BEFORE THE POEMS

"Is there such a place as Grenstone?"

Celia, hear them ask!

Tell me, shall we share it with them?-- Shall we let them breathe and bask

On the windy, sunny pasture, Where the hill-top turns its face Toward the valley of the mountain, Our beloved place?

Shall we show them through our churchyard, With its crumbling wall Set between the dead and living?

Shall our willowed waterfall,

Huckleberries, pines and bluebirds Be a secret we shall share?-- If they make but little of it, Celia, shall we care?

It will be seen that the independence of Mr. Bynner is quite different from the independence of Mr. Underwood; but they both have the secret of self-sufficiency.

Another loyal Harvard poet is Herman Hagedorn, who was born at New York in 1882, and took his degree at college in 1907. For some time he was on the English Faculty at Harvard, and has a scholar's knowledge of English literature. He has published plays and books of verse, of which the best known are _A Troop of the Guard_ (1909) and _Poems and Ballads_, which appeared the same year. He has a good command of lyrical expression, which ought to enable him in the years to come to produce work of richer content than his verses have thus far shown.

The best known of the Harvard poets of the twentieth century is Percy Mackaye, who is still better known as a playwright and maker of pageants. He was born at New York, on the sixteenth of March, 1875, and was graduated from Harvard in 1897. He has travelled much in Europe, and has given many lectures on dramatic art in America. His poetry may be collectively studied in one volume of appalling avoirdupois, published in 1916. It takes a strong wrist to hold it, but it is worth the effort.

The chief difficulty with Mr. Mackaye is his inability to escape from his opinions. He is far too self-conscious, much too much preoccupied with theory, both in drama and in poetry. He can write nothing without explaining his motive, without trying to show himself and others the aim of poetry and drama. However morally n.o.ble all this may be--and it surely is that--it hampers the author. I wish he could for once completely forget all artistic propaganda, completely forget himself, and give his Muse a chance. "She needs no introduction to this audience."

There is no doubt that he has something of the divine gift. His _Centenary Ode on Lincoln_, published separately in 1909, was the best out of all the immense number of effusions I read that year. He rose to a great occasion.

One of his most original pieces is the dog-vivisection poem, called _The Heart in the Jar_. There is a tumultuous pa.s.sion in it almost overpowering; and no one but a true poet could ever have thought of or have employed such symbolism. Mr. Mackaye's mind is so alert, so inquisitive, so volcanic, that he seems to me always just about to produce something that shall surpa.s.s his previous efforts. I have certainly not lost faith in his future.

John Gould Fletcher was born at Little Rock, Arkansas, in 1886. He studied at Andover and at Harvard, and has lived much in London. He has become identified with the Imagists. Personally I wish that Mr.

Fletcher would use his remarkable power to create gorgeous imagery in the production of orthodox forms of verse. Free verse ought to be less monotonous than constantly repeated sonnets, quatrains, and stanza-forms; but the fact is just the other way. A volume made up entirely of free verse, unless written by a man of genius, has a capacity to bore the reader that at times seems almost criminal.

Conrad Aiken was born at Savannah, Georgia, on the fifth of August, 1889, is a graduate of Harvard and lives in Boston. He has published several volumes of poems, among which _Earth Triumphant_ (1914) is representative of his ability and philosophy. It certainly represents his ability more fairly than _The Jig of Forslin_ (1916), which is both pretentious and dull. I suspect few persons have read every page of it. I have.

Not yet thirty, Mr. Aiken is widely known; but the duration of his fame will depend upon his future work. He has thus far shown the power to write melodious music, to paint nature pictures in warm colours; he is ever on the quest of Beauty. His sensible preface to _Earth Triumphant_ calls attention to certain similarities between his style in verse-narrative and that of John Masefield. But he is not a copier, and his work is his own. Some poets are on the earth; some are in the air; some, like Sh.e.l.ley, are in the aether. Conrad Aiken is firmly, gladly on the earth. He believes that our only paradise is here and now.

He surely has the gift of singing speech, but his poetry lacks intellectual content. In the volume _Nocturne of Remembered Spring_ (1917), there is a dreamy charm, like the hesitating notes of Chopin.

Although his contribution to the advance of poetry is not important, he has the equipment of a poet. When he has more to say, he will have no difficulty in making us listen; for he understands the magic of words. Thus far his poems are something like librettos; they don't mean much without the music. Let him remember the bitter cry of old Henry Vaughan: every artist, racked by labour-pains, will understand what Vaughan meant by calling this piece _Anguish_:

O! 'tis an easy thing To write and sing; But to write true, unfeigned verse Is very hard! O G.o.d, disperse These weights, and give my spirit leave To act as well as to conceive

Among our young American poets there are few who have inherited in richer or purer measure than William Alexander Percy. He was born at Greenville, Mississippi, on the fourth of May, 1885, and studied at the University of the South and at the Harvard Law School. He is now in military service. In 1915, his volume of poems, _Sappho in Leukas_, attracted immediately the attention of discriminating critics. The prologue shows that n.o.ble devotion to art, that high faith in it, entirely beyond the understanding of the Philistine, but which awakens an instant and accurate vibration in the heart of every lover of poetry.

O singing heart, think not of aught save song; Beauty can do no wrong.

Let but th' inviolable music shake Golden on golden flake, Down to the human throng, And one, one surely, will look up, and hear and wake.

Weigh not the rapture; measure not nor sift G.o.d's dark, delirious gift; But deaf to immortality or gain, Give as the s.h.i.+ning rain, Thy music pure and swift, And here or there, sometime, somewhere, 'twill reach the grain.

There is a wide range of subjects in this volume, Greek, mediaeval, and modern--inspiration from, books and inspiration from outdoors.

But there is not a single poem that could be called crude or flat.

Mr. Percy is a poet and an artist; he can be ornate and he can be severe; but in both phases there is a dignity not always characteristic of contemporary verse. I do not prophesy--but I feel certain of this man.

One day in 1917, I clipped a nameless poem from a daily newspaper, and carried it in my pocketbook for months. Later I discovered that it was written by Mr. Percy, and had first appeared in _The Bellman_. I know of no poem by any American published in the year 1917 that for combined beauty of thought and beauty of expression is superior to this little masterpiece.

OVERTONES

I heard a bird at break of day Sing from the autumn trees A song so mystical and calm, So full of certainties, No man, I think, could listen long Except upon his knees.

Yet this was but a simple bird, Alone, among dead trees.

Alan Seeger--whose heroic death glorified his youth--was born at New York on the twenty-second of June, 1888. He studied at Harvard; then lived in Paris, and no one has ever loved Paris more than he. He enlisted in the Foreign Legion of France at the outbreak of the war in 1914, and fell on the fourth of July, 1916. His letters show his mind and heart clearly.

He knew his poetry was good, and that it would not die with his body.

In the last letter he wrote, we find these words: "I will write you soon if I get through all right. If not, my only earthly care is for my poems. Add the ode I sent you and the three sonnets to my last volume and you will have _opera omnia quae existant_."

He wrote his autobiography in one of his last sonnets, paying poetic tribute to Philip Sidney--lover of woman, lover of battle, lover of art.

Sidney, in whom the heydey of romance Came to its precious and most perfect flower, Whether you tourneyed with victorious lance Or brought sweet roundelays to Stella's bower, I give myself some credit for the way I have kept clean of what enslaves and lowers, Shunned the ideals of our present day And studied those that were esteemed in yours; For, turning from the mob that buys Success By sacrificing all life's better part, Down the free roads of human happiness I frolicked, poor of purse but light of heart, And lived in strict devotion all along To my three idols--Love and Arms and Song.

His most famous poem, _I Have a Rendezvous with Death_, is almost intolerably painful in its tragic beauty, in its contrast between the darkness of the unchanging shadow and the apple-blossoms of the sunny air--above all, because we read it after both Youth and Death have kept their word, and met at the place appointed.

He was an inspired poet. Poetry came from him as naturally as rain from clouds. His magnificent _Ode in Memory of the American Volunteers Fallen in France_ has a n.o.bility of phrase that matches the elevation of thought. Work like this cannot be forgotten.

Alan Seeger was an Elizabethan. He had a consuming pa.s.sion for beauty--his only religion. He loved women and he loved war, like the gallant, picturesque old soldiers of fortune. There was no pose in all this; his was a brave, uncalculating, forthright nature, that gave everything he had and was, without a shade of fear or a shade of regret. He is one of the most fiery spirits of our time, and like Rupert Brooke, he will be thought of as immortally young.

CHAPTER XI

A GROUP OF YALE POETS

Henry A. Beers--the fine quality of his literary style in prose and verse--force and grace--finished art--his humour--C.

M. Lewis--his war poem--E. B. Reed--_Lyra Yalensis_--F.

E. Pierce--his farm lyrics--Brian Hooker--his strong sonnets--his _Turns_--R. C. Rogers--_The Rosary_--Rupert Hughes--novelist, playwright, musician, poet--Robert Hunger--his singing--R. B. Glaenzer--his fancies--Benjamin R. C. Low--his growth--William R. Benet--his vitality and optimism--Arthur Colton--his Chaucer poem--Allan Updegraff--_The Time and the Place_--Lee Wilson Dodd--his development--a list of other Yale Poets--Stephen V. Benet.

During the twentieth century there has been flowing a fountain of verse from the faculty, young alumni, and undergraduates of Yale University; and I reserve this s.p.a.ce at the end of my hook for a consideration of the Yale group of poets, some of whom are already widely known and some of whom seem destined to be. I am not thinking of magazine verse or of fugitive pieces, but only of independent volumes of original poems. Yale has always been close to the national life of America; and the recent outburst of poetry from her sons is simply additional evidence of the renaissance all over the United States. Anyhow, the fact is worth recording.

Professor Henry A. Beers was born at Buffalo on the second of July, 1847. He was admitted to the New York Bar in 1870, but in 1871 became an Instructor in English Literature at Yale, teaching continuously for forty-five years, when he retired. He has written--at too rare intervals--all his life. His book of short stories, containing _A Suburban Pastoral_ and _Split Zephyr_, the last-named being, according to Meredith Nicholson, the best story of college life ever printed, would possibly have attracted more general attention were it not for its prevailing tone of quiet, un.o.btrusive pessimism, an unwelcome note in America. I am as sure of the high quality of _A Suburban Pastoral_ as I am sure of anything; and have never found a critic who, after reading the tale, disagreed with me. In 1885 Professor Beers published a little volume of poems, _The Thankless Muse_; and in 1917 he collected in a thin book _The Two Twilights_, the best of his youthful and mature poetic production.

The variety of expression is so great that no two poems are in the same mood. In _Love, Death, and Life_ we have one of the most pa.s.sionate love-poems in American literature; in _The Pasture Bars_ the valediction has the soft, pure tone of a silver bell.

Professor Beers has both vigour and grace. His fastidious taste permits him to write little, and to print only a small part of what he writes. But the force of his poetic language is so extraordinary that it has sometimes led to a complete and unfortunate misinterpretation of his work. In _The Dying Pantheist to the Priest_, he wrote a poem as purely dramatic, as non-personal, as the monologues of Browning; he quite successfully represented the att.i.tude of an (imaginary) defiant, unrepentant pagan to an (imaginary) priest who wished to save him in his last moments. The speeches put into the mouth of the pantheist no more represent Mr. Beers's own sentiments than Browning's poem _Confessions_ represented Browning's att.i.tude toward death and religion; yet it is perhaps a tribute to the fervour of the lyric that many readers have taken it as a violent attack on Christian theology.

Just as I am certain of the finished art of _A Suburban Pastoral,_ I am equally certain of the beauty and n.o.bility of the poetry in _The Two Twilights._ This volume gives its author an earned place in the front rank of living American poets.

To me one of the most original and charming of the songs is the valediction to New York--and the homage to New Haven.

NUNC DIMITTIS

Highlands of Navesink, By the blue ocean's brink, Let your grey bases drink Deep of the sea.