The Advance of English Poetry in the Twentieth Century

s of the age toward poetry-his Epigrams-Wordsworth's Grave-his eminence as a critic in verse-his anti-imperialism-his Song of Hate-his Byronic wit-his contempt for the "new"

m-his modernity-his originality-h

from the British Academy. Some of the more distinguished among his admirers asserted that the nobility, splendour, and beauty of his verse merited the adjective Miltonic. I remember that we Americans thought that the English critics had lost their heads, and we queried what they would say

mar School. Later he spent a year at Queens' College, Cambridge, enough to give him the right to be enrolled in the long list of Cambridge poets. He went on the stage as a member of Frank Benson's company, and in his time played many parts, receiving on one occasion a curtain call as the Ghost in Hamlet. This experience-with the early Stratford inspiration-probably fired his ambition to become a dramatist. The late Sir George Alexander produced Paolo and Francesca; Herod was acted in London by Beerbohm Tree,

glish poetry. In The Woman with the Dead Soul, he showed once more the musical possibilities latent in the heroic couplet, which Pope had used with such monotonous brilliance. In Marpessa, he gave us blank verse of noble artistry. But he was far more than a mere technician. He fairly meets the test set by John Davidson. "In the poet the whole assembly of his being is harmonious; no organ is master; a diapason extends throughout the entire scale; his whole body, his whole soul is r

to read it aloud on the shore of an angry sea. Homer, Sha

ainst the atmosphere of day and night, and the other against homely human experience. Although Mr.

the

smell of flow

earning of t

passing night

l he rose and

mmer; 'twas t

onscious of t

ness that we

ay that glideth

y, was at her

usical with

ght trembled

ail, and every

g in the gl

surgent hearts; but not every poet possesses the rarer gift of setting t

e with Idas,

th shall prosp

the open fi

oises of the

elds burned by

irst sweet sting

almost venom is

and extravag

secret kiss by

ewell repeated

shall succeed

ndship tried b

the daily d

sadder, still

all frailties,

with mellowing

must grow old,

he shall not

d, and waning

azed in ever

murmur at, no

gently bend u

incline our

ping, and with

inspect our

it with lumino

any griefs, b

eet of living

emories not u

er. Last, we

al ground-not

st, ah God! one

one blow for b

iends, glad to ha

esome memory

realism as honest and clear-sighted as that of Crabbe or Masefield. In The Woman with the Dead Soul and The Wife we have naturalism elevated into poetry. He could make a London night as mys

ble with l

the orchest

. The mystical communion with nature is expressed with authority in such poems as After Rain, Thoughts at Sunrise, Thoughts at Noon. Indeed the first-named distinctly harks back to that transcendental mystic of the seventeenth century, Henry Vaughan. The greatest triumph in the whole volume comes where we

befouled, his clear mentality discounted by thousands of pygmy politicians and journalistic gnats. The poet, with a poet's love for

poet dwell a

the furious

the central

love old bran

rses on an E

l thy breathin

mendous in the

gs we praise thee,

ore, because th

policy the e

party strife

e the thunde

sues fire of

ghtest tang of it in The Prince's Quest. This long, rambling romance, in ten sections, is as devoid of flavour as a five-finger exercise. It is more than objective; it is somnambulistic. It contains hardly any notable lines, and hardly any bad lines. Although quite dull, it never deviates into prose-it is always somehow poetical without ever becoming poetry. It is written in the heroic couplet, w

tti, is so beautiful, "himseemed" should be so irritating!) But aside from a few specimens, the poem is as free from affectations as it is from passion. When we remember the faults and the splendours of Pauline, it seems incredible that a young poet could write so many pages without stumbling and without

ision, "wox" becoming normal, and "himseemed" becoming dissyllabic. For my part, I am glad that it has now been definitely retained. It is important in the study of a poet's development. It would seem that the

hts to himself, until he knew how to express them. After proving it on an impersonal

, like Browning, like Ibsen, like Wagner, must wait some time for public recognition, although these three all lived long enough to receive not only appreciation, but idolatry; but the "reading public" has no difficulty in recognizing immediately first-rate work, when it is produced in the familiar forms of art. In the Preface that preceded his printed lecture, Mr. Watson complained with some natural resentment, though with no petulance, that his p

e, if my memory serves me rightly, he advocated something like a stipend for young poets. A distinguished old man in the audience, now with God, whispered audibly, "What most of them need is hanging!" I do not think they sh

cott and Byron. The exception is, of course, that apostle of British imperialism-that vehement and voluble glorifier of Britannic ideals, whom I dare say you will readily identify from my brief, and, I hope, not disparaging description of him. With that one brilliant and salient exception, England's living singers succeed in reaching only a pitifully small audience." In commenting on this passage, we ought to remember that Scott and Byron were colossal figures, so big that no eye could miss them; and that the reason why Kipling has enjoyed substant

oetry. I wish this with all my heart, not so much for the poet's sake, as for that of the people. But the chosen spirits are not rarer in our time than formerly. The fault is in human nature. Material blessings are instantly appreciated by every man, woman, and child, and by all the animals. For one person who kn

with the soul,-

this our soul's g

the body's g

ation would con

he both reaso

en chooses: will

rple once he k

rist up were his

, to test man, t

sp that fact l

y in his life

indubitable b

n nobly expresses it, the aim of the poet "is to keep fresh within us our often flagging sense of life's greatness and grandeur." We can exist on food; but we

especially cultivated by the poets in the first half of the seventeenth century. Their formula the terse expression of obscene thoughts. Mr. Watson excels the best of them in wit, concision, and grace; it is needless to say he makes

re altar, prie

he faiths

m darkening

emerge

its subject, is

loved. His dire

he did but

miss the in

il that wagg'd c

rams are on purel

age I close, my

fter gong and

ity, the lo

ves of the g

t of writing subtle literary criticism in rhythmical language that is itself high and pure poetry, Mr. Watson is unapproachable by any of his contemporaries, and I do not know of any poet in English literature who has surpassed him. This is his specialty, this is his clearest title to perman

e ful

lves found me

se also to

reatness, and

s least heroi

he kind of criticism that is in itself genius; for we may quarrel with Mr. Spingarn as much as we please on his general dogmatic principle of the identity of genius and taste; here we have so admirable an example of what he means by creative criticism, that it is a pity

esmen for the insulted and injured. Robert Burns, more than most statesmen, helped to make the world safe for democracy. I do not know what humanity would do without its poets-they are the champions of the individual against the tyranny of power, the cruel selfishness of kings, and the artificial conventions of society. We may or may not agree with Mr. Wa

RY IS O

ourts; of king

ife of man is

our heart the

ous embassi

ll in fine and

our heart the

nsellors neithe

mouth God spew

our heart the

velled night is

e of all the i

wer, and its lo

s in meanest ar

ighty

ear, affronte

ople to be rac

rmies waxing

sant all

leagues to mur

ngs that on the d

oveless lust

only babble

ght the shrieki

iance, and the p

r, and sham

vil whereof

ry is o

our heart the

Watson published a poem of Hate some years before the Teutonic hymn became famous. It is worth reading again, because it so exactly expresses the col

A

n foreign

truth must

you that rai

y masters,

ek Calends f

ifts of our

s used wit

hate too c

nd careless

dare not, m

uses will

pure, a thi

benignant

ancient, sce

Power, endu

r these our

red and ke

In his Preface, after commenting on the pain he had suffered in times past at finding himself in opposition to the majority of his countrymen, he manfully says, "During the present war, with all its agonies and horrors, he has had at any rate the one private satisfaction of feeling not even the most momentary doubt or misgiving as to the perfect righteousness of his country's cause. There is nothing on earth of which he is more certain than that this Empire, throughout this supreme ordeal, has shaped her course by the light of purest duty." The volume opens with a fine

oped, a lean a

ge since summe

rden, on its

w pansy

aying by trope

empire against

perish, ground

n thought

emperament that, combined with an almost morbid sensitiveness, he has something of Byron's power of hitting back. His numerous volumes contain many verses scoring off adverse critics, upon whom he exercises a sword of satire not always to be found among a poet's weapons; which exercise seems to give him both relief and

isto: "Ah, y

nd the danger

ny as his na

invited guest

ce he and I w

-but to bygo

windows; if a p

rn, we'll start whe

his compani

e abodes where

ning quicken

sound the heav

hort," Mephis

ntment about

heaven has hard

ays before the

ents his spleen on "modern" poets too often. In his latest volume, Retrogression, published in 1917, thirty-two of the fifty-two poems are devoted to the defence of standards of poetic art and of purity of speech. They are all interesting and contain some truth; but if the "new" poetry and the "new" criticism are really balderdash, they should not require so much attention from one of the most eminent of contemporary writers. I think Mr. Watson is rather stiff-necked and obstinate, like an honest, hearty country squire, in his sturdy following of tradition. Smooth technique is a fine thing in art; but I do not care whether a poem is written in conventional metre or in free verse, so long as it is unmistakably poetry. And no garments yet invented or the lack

ordshire, and if they had, they would not have been the same things, anyhow. Mr. Noyes was born on the sixteenth of September, 1880, and made his first departure from the traditions of English poetry in going to Oxford. There he was an excellent illustration of mens sana in corpore sano, writing verses and rowing on his college crew. He is married to an Am

nion. The purely literary temperament is usually marked by a certain shyness which unfits its owner for the public platform. I have heard poets read passion

s ideas require no enlargement of the orchestra, and he generally avoids by-paths, or unbeaten tracks, content to go lustily singing along the highway. Perhaps it shows more courage to compete with standard poets in standard measures, than to elude dangerous comparisons by making or adopting a new fashion. Mr. Noyes openly challenges the masters on

ommand of the resources of language and rhythm. Were this all he possessed, he would be nothing but a graceful musician. But he has the imagination of the inspired poet, giving him creative power to reveal anew the majesty of the untamed sea, and the mystery of the stars. With this clairvoyance-essential in poetry-he has a hearty, charming,

, tack, I couldn

ws polite and pl

"I'm glad your boot

ding is your feet '

, tack, she didn

ys, and sort o' cho

iddinghoe tomorr

man! Haw! Don't th

, like

leep tonight? God made

get the very breath of spring in almost intolerable sweetness. This poem affects the head, the heart, and the feet. I defy any man or woman to read it without surrendering to the magic of the lilacs, the magic of

est un lut

le touche,

little children; and I know-however insignificant they may be to others-these two tales contain as deep and true things as I, personally, have the power to express. I hope, therefore, that I may be pardoned, in these hurried days, for pointing out that the two poems are not to be taken merely as fairy-tales, but as an attempt to follow the careless and happy feet of children back into the kingdom of thos

ith, and other masters show a high reverence; but they are without subtlety, and lack the discriminating phrase. He is, however, deeply read in Elizabethan verse and prose, as his Tales of the Mermaid Tavern, one of his longest, most painstaking, and least successful works, proves; and of all the Elizabethan men of action, Drake is his hero. The English lovers of the sea, and the German lovers of ef

sionate. And while many descriptive passages are fine, the pictures of the terrible storm near Cape Horn are surely less vivid than those in Dauber. Had Mr. Noyes written Drake without the songs, and written nothing else, I should not feel certain that he was a poet; I should regard him as an extremely fluent versifier, with

of his lyrical power, the f

MAY-

tree on

in th

ant and

sky w

aling fro

t swee

hink Di

e you

e so, h

es wit

s across

epherd

. A bird

ose pur

and flutt

ion k

ter he had mastered the technique of conventional rime and rhythm, as shown in many of his lyrical pieces, he began playing new tunes on the old instrument. In The Tramp Transfigured, to which I find myself always returning in a consideration of his work, because it displays some of the highest qualities of pure p

rid,-ah, but sh

weeping thro' the

her strange garl

ith white

d in

t glen where

garland as Merli

milk-white horns

d the new upon

e

to call either Great Britain or America to arms; but if the gun-drunken Germans really believed that the English and Americans would not fight to save the world from an unspeakable despotism, they made the mistake of thei

ood to that vai

nts call

only they who

ly lay

ide from child a

ath and he

th, her flag,

must lead

of of intellectual greatness. Every honest man must report the world as he sees it, both in its external manifestations and in the equally salient fact of human emotion. Mr. Noyes has always loved life, and rejoiced in it; he loves the beauty of the world and beli

rmal. He is healthy-minded, without a trace of affectation or decadence. He follows the Tennysonian tradition in seeing tha

nfronts the reader: how could a University Professor of Latin write this kind of poetry, and how, after having published it, could he refrain from writing more? Since the date of its appeara

y repressed h

genial curre

e of the time than he; and the sixty-three short lyrics in one small volume form a slender wedge for so powerful an impact. This poetry, except in finished workmanship, follows no English tradition; it is as unorthodox as Samuel Butler; it is thoroughly "modern" in tone, in tempe

ince the wor

t much less g

he sun and

nce, but tro

t as a wis

or ill and

he stuff I b

brisk a br

em that sco

t in a we

: if the sm

for the emb

o good to h

ul is in my

friend yo

rk and cl

healing power of the bitter herb of pessimism. But we should remember that A Shropshire Lad was published before the

out death, because its contrast to their present condition forms a romantic tragedy, sharply dramatic and yet instinctively felt to be remote. Tennyson's first volume is full of the details of dissolution, the falling jaw, the eye-balls fixing, the sh

nd the grave, but in the acute self-consciousness of youth, in the pagan

f trees, th

h bloom alo

about the w

hite for

hreescore ye

ll not co

m seventy sp

eaves me

look at thi

ngs are li

woodland

cherry hung

ought that youth loves to play with, is twice glorified. The death of love is often

friend

m thin

e found t

r bed t

d, I li

lads woul

dead man's

ask me

ed in some poems than in others, leaves its mark on them all. It is the originality of a man who thinks his own thoughts with shy obstinacy, makes up his mind in secret meditation, quite unaffected by current opinion. It i

art an air

far count

se blue reme

, what farm

land of lo

t shini

highways w

not com

t war. What strange vision made him write such poems as The Recruit, The Street Sounds to the Soldiers' Tread, The Day of Battle, and On the Idle Hill of Summer? Change the co

now and will be for many years to come also significa