THE PERILOUS LIGHT 
 
THE PERILOUS 
 LIGHT 
 
 BY 
 
 EVA GORE-BOOTH 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 Erskine macdonald 
 
 MCMXV 
 
PRINTED BY 
 
 W. UATE ANX> SONS, LIMIISD 
 
 BOtniNEMOUTH 
 
 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR (XGfP^'J 
 
 PRESS NOTICES 
 
 /^mn 
 
 " THE ONE AND THE MANY." 
 
 Miss Gore-Booth's best lyric ; one of the most beautiful 
 things that any writer bar one in the new Irish movement has 
 produced. — Manchester Guardian. 
 
 Miss Gore-Booth's verse, in short, has a magic, glamour, 
 melody and distinction. . . . For its purely poetical quality 
 nothing is better than the exquisite lyric " The Little Waves 
 of Breffny. . . . — Spectator. 
 
 This book brims over with the mystery and poetry of the 
 East and of the ancient religions, as well as with the sweet 
 lilting melody so often characteristic of the songs of the Western 
 Gael. The over-long crooning lines of some of the chants — 
 Whitman-like and fascinating — have a certain rvme-like charm. 
 . . , Miss Gore-Booth is a poet for poets. . . . — Journal of 
 Education. 
 
 *'THE SORROWFUL PRINCESS." 
 
 . . . has the stir and onward pressure of drama really meant 
 as such. . . . The use of well varied anapaestic and semi- 
 anapaestic measures in the lyrics is skilful and charming. . . . 
 She comes pretty near taking our breath away in some passages, 
 as that of " the star-guarded palace on the hill," for instance, 
 and that of the doomed Princess — 
 
 Feeling the dear lost air 
 
 On her face and her hands. 
 
 — Manchester Guardian. 
 
 Her verse contains all the delicate fancy of the Celtic 
 renascence. . . . There are some beautiful songs. . . , — Pall 
 Mall Gazette. 
 
 Miss Gore-Booth's little work is a classic in itself, teeming 
 with beautiful imagery and harmony of expression. — Irish 
 Independent. 
 
 There are not many good woodland plays in existence, but 
 this is one of the best. It abovmds in strong imaginative pass- 
 ages, and some of the scenes are wrought to a high pitch of 
 dramatic intensity and power. — Standard. 
 
 (7) 
 
PRESS ISiOTlCES— continued 
 
 "THE THREE RESURRECTIONS" and 
 "THE TRIUMPH OF MAEVE." 
 
 Pull of beautiful things. — Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 The work has a rare artistic grace of its own. — Scotsman. 
 
 The Three Resurrections, of lyazarus, Alcestis and Psyche, 
 are peculiarly typical of the author, . . . These three are fine 
 poems — Lazarus is a worthy companion to Browning's on the 
 same subject, and they alone would make any book notable, 
 for they are altogether noble and profoimdly human. — Glasgow 
 Herald. 
 
 A very beautiful poem wrought in grave and subtle melodies 
 and filled with the haunting sense of Celtic mysticism. — Dial. 
 
 "UNSEEN KINGS." 
 
 Miss Gore-Booth is undoubtedly one upon whom the spark 
 of poetry has fallen from heaven. — Literary World. 
 
 Miss Gore-Booth's lines are stately and melodious, decorated 
 with the apt uncommon word, and at times tense with tumul- 
 tuous feeling. — Bookman. 
 
 She displays indeed a true imagination, a poetic gift of her 
 own. Her style and diction are choice and finished ; while she 
 has considerable power of imagery, and that imagery is really 
 imaginative. Her book is one of much promise — and, indeed, 
 performance. — Francis Thompson in The Academy. 
 
 A Celtic mythological drama beautifully told in verse. — 
 Outlook. 
 
 "THE AGATE LAMP." 
 
 Exquisitely done — a curious mingling of religions and 
 artistic sympathies. ..." The Inner Egeria " and " The 
 Immortal Soul " have a content of thought adequate to their 
 metrical perfection. — Spectator. 
 
 The poems breathe the same eager adventure of the mind 
 that inspires all Eva Gore-Booth's work. — " JE " in The Irish 
 Homestead. 
 
 ... a decided personal fascination about the volume. The 
 last verse of the very first poem is instinct with poetic feeling. 
 . . . Much of the verse is inspired evidently by statue and 
 picture, and in " The Fisherman," Holman Hunt's painting, 
 she writes in a Ughter, homelier vein, but one equally sure. 
 But perhaps the strongest thing in the book are the " Divina 
 Commedia " verses. — Stephen Phillips in The Poetry Review. 
 
 (8) 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 page: 
 
 The PERII.OUS Light - - - - 11 
 
 /vThe lyiTTi^E Waves of Breffny - 14 
 
 ^ lyAMENT FOR FlONAVAR - - - 15 
 
 Song (The Sorrowfui. Princess) - 18 
 
 The lyOT HAS Fai.i.en on Her - - 20 
 
 A Buddhist Pii^grimage - - - 22 
 
 Re-incarnation - - - - - 24 
 
 The Body to the Soui. - - - 27 
 
 The Man Who Woui,d Remember - 30 
 
 The Vagrant's Romance - - - 36 
 
 The Immortai. Soul - - - - 42 
 
 Crucifixion - - - - - 48 
 
 The Mystic - - - . . 50 
 
 Sano di Pietro - - - - - 53 
 
 The IvAnd to the I^andi^ord - - 55 
 
 In Tir-nan-ogue - - - - 57 
 
 Pallas of the Tides . - - - 58 
 
 Unseen Kings - - - - - 59 
 
 Unity -------61 
 
 Man and Woman - - - . - 62 
 
 The Agate I^amp - - - - 63 
 
 (9) 
 
THE PERILOUS LIGHT 
 
 The Eternal Beauty smiled at me 
 From the long Uly's curved form. 
 
 She laughed in a wave of the sea. 
 She flashed on white wings through the storm. 
 
 In the bulb of a daffodil 
 She made a little joyful stir, 
 
 And the white cabin on the hill 
 
 Was my heart's home because of her. 
 
 Her laughter fled the eyes of pride. 
 Barefoot she went o'er stony land. 
 
 And ragged children hungry-eyed 
 
 Clung to her skirts and held her hand. 
 
 When storm winds shook the cabin door. 
 And red the Atlantic sunset blazed, 
 
 The fisher folk of Mullaghmore 
 Into her eyes indifferent gazed. 
 
 By lonely waves she dwells apart 
 And sea-gulls circling on white wings 
 
 Crowd round the windows of her heart 
 Most dear to her of starving things. 
 
 (II) 
 
The Perilous IvIGht — continued 
 
 The ploughman down by Knocknarea 
 Was free of her twiUght abode ; 
 
 In shining sea winds salt with spray. 
 She haunted every gray cross road. 
 
 Some peasants with a creel of turf 
 Along the windswept boreen came ; 
 
 Her feet went flashing through the surf. 
 Her wings were in the sunset's flame. 
 
 Beyond the rocks of Classiebawn 
 The mackerel fishers sailing far 
 
 Out in the vast Atlantic dawn 
 
 Found, tangled in their nets, a star 
 
 In every spent and broken wave 
 The Eternal Beauty takes her rest; 
 
 She is the Lover of the Brave, 
 The comrade of the perilous quest. 
 
 The Eternal Beauty wrung my heart, 
 Faithful is she, and true to shed 
 
 The austere glory of Art 
 
 On the scarceness of daily bread. 
 
 (12) 
 
The PeriIvOUS IvIGht — continued 
 
 Men follow her with toil and thought 
 Over the heavens' starry pride; 
 
 The Eternal Beauty comes unsought 
 To the child by the roadside. 
 
 (13) 
 
THE LITTLE WAVES OF BREFFNY 
 
 The grand road from the mountain goes 
 shining to the 3ea, 
 And there is traffic in it, and many a horse 
 and cart; 
 But the Uttle roads of Cloonagh are dearer 
 far to me, 
 And the little roads of Cloonagh go rambling 
 through my heart. 
 
 A great storm from the ocean goes shouting 
 o'er the hill, 
 And, there is glory in it and terror on the 
 wind ; 
 But the haunted air of twiUght is very strange 
 and still, 
 And the little winds of twiUght are dearer 
 to my mind. 
 
 The great waves of the Atlantic sweep 
 storming on their way. 
 Shining green and silver with the hidden 
 herring shoal; 
 But^the little waves of Breflny have drenched 
 my heart in spray, 
 And the little waves of Breffny go 
 stumbling through my soul. 
 
 (14) 
 
LAMENT FOR FIONA VAR 
 
 She is rescued from days and hours, she is 
 lost to the years that pass, 
 
 And the broken pride of her beauty shall lie 
 near the roots of the grass. 
 
 In vain dost thou seek to restore her, oh 
 Queen she was weary of war, 
 
 lyet us bear her away to the peace of the 
 lonely and dream-trodden shore. 
 
 Far away, near the haunted Rosses, where 
 the sea shrinks out of the bay, 
 
 And the world is a purple shadow from the 
 Greenlands to Knocknarea. 
 
 Where the sky is above and about us and the 
 sand crumbles under our tread. 
 
 And a rain soft wind from the hills shall 
 soothe the tired eyelids of the dead. 
 
 We will fold her round with our pity, we will 
 lay her down in her grave, 
 
 Fionavar, fairest of women, the daughter of 
 yellow-haired Mseve. 
 
 (15) 
 
Lament for Fiona var — continued 
 
 Oh, Mother, how shall we remember, how 
 shall we bear her in mind, 
 
 A spent lamp lost in the darkness or a flame 
 that went forth on the wind ? 
 
 Is she broken and silent and gone like the 
 
 broken string of a lyre. 
 Or radiant, a child of the lightning, a spirit 
 
 of music and fire ? 
 
 Did she mock at the growing flowers, think 
 scorn of the spring in her pride. 
 
 Though the guardian hills stood dreaming 
 about her, she would not abide. 
 
 The rain and the wind were her comrades, 
 she left them, she went forth alone. 
 
 Now the rainbow's circle is broken, the dreams 
 of the wind overthrown. 
 
 She forsook the kind hearth of the world and 
 the sweetness of things that are, 
 
 To build up the pride of her soul on some 
 lonely and perilous star. 
 
 (i6) 
 
lyAMENT FOR FiONAVAR — Continued 
 
 She is hidden away from the twiUght, her 
 
 secret is known to none, 
 She has broken her faith with the wind and 
 
 the sea, she is false to the sun. 
 
 (17) 
 
SONG OF THE PRINCESSES' 
 MAIDENS 
 
 From The Sorrowful Princess 
 
 {Before the drawing of lots for a human sxcrifiu 
 to the gods.) 
 
 Osiris, Ivord of the shadows of night and the 
 sands of the days that have run. 
 
 One of us gazes her last on the blue of the 
 sky and the cheerful sun. 
 
 We suffer we know not why, we have dreamed 
 no evil and done no wrong, 
 
 Osiris grant that she who must die shall be 
 one of the wise and strong. 
 
 L^et not the soul of a child be torn from the 
 
 light of her radiant hour. 
 Break not, oh dark Osiris, the stalk of the 
 
 deUcate half-opened flower. 
 
 There is none shall have pity upon us, and 
 the gods shall not spare us or save, 
 
 But Osiris grant that the lot of death shall 
 fall on the true and the brave. 
 
 (i8) 
 
Song of the Princesses' Maidens — cont'd. 
 
 I^et her go down to the Underworld with a 
 
 smile in her desolate eyes, 
 The sister of all who are noble of heart and 
 
 the comrade of the wise. 
 
 Nay, she whom Osiris calls shall not sigh, 
 by her not a tear shall be shed. 
 
 With a sword in her hand and a radiant will 
 she shall go down to the dead. 
 
 Face to face with the Hidden One in the 
 Underworld she shall stand, 
 
 And she who dies a pitiless death shall gain 
 pity for all the land. 
 
 Osiris, lyord of the shadows of night and the 
 sands of the days that have run, 
 
 One of us gazes her last on the blue of the 
 sky and the cheerful sun. 
 
 (19) 
 
SONG FROM THE SORROWFUL 
 PRINCESS 
 
 i^After the drawing of lots, the lot has fallen on 
 the Princess Sabra.) 
 
 The lot has fallen on her. 
 
 The true and the brave ; 
 She is pale but she does not stir, 
 
 There is none to save ; 
 She is strong, she does not cry 
 
 Against the terrible doom; 
 She will not yield or fly, 
 But she sighed like one who has lost her way 
 
 in the gloom. 
 Hermes, be thou her guide, who has lost her 
 way in the gloom. 
 
 She who is wise and fair, 
 
 Sabra the Princess stands, 
 Feeling the dear lost air 
 
 On her face and her hands ; 
 Knowing her sorrowful eyes 
 
 Shall behold no more 
 The blue and the golden skies, 
 -And the great green boughs of the oak and 
 
 the broad-leaved sycamore. 
 Hermes, be thou her guide on the dim mys- 
 terious shore. 
 
 (20) 
 
Song from the Sorrowfui. Princkss 
 
 — continued 
 
 Sabra, thou goest thy ways 
 Full of courage and truth, 
 Hid from the sorrowful gaze 
 
 Of our rainbow-lit youth. 
 Thee there is none to greet 
 
 In the homes of the dead; 
 We hear the sound of thy feet, 
 But we shrink from the terrible path that 
 
 thy spirit must tread. 
 Osiris, be thou her guide in the bitter world 
 of the dead. 
 
 (21) 
 
A BUDDHIST PILGRIMAGE 
 
 (From The Dammaphada) 
 
 Two pilgrims journeyed through a desert place 
 To find the grove where that world- 
 honoured One 
 Preached unto men and Devas ; by God's 
 grace 
 A Hon met them at the set of sun. 
 
 Unto the love of all things bound and vowed, 
 One pilgrim dared to die nor drew his 
 sword, 
 
 But his white soul winged like a silver cloud 
 Stood with the Deva throng before the lyord. 
 
 The other, gazing on his senseless clay, 
 lyonged so for the lyord Buddha that he 
 slew 
 
 The lion standing in the Holy Way, 
 Nor any gentle dream of pity knew, 
 
 But stumbled on the Path, and wandered far, 
 And toiled across the sandy desert wide. 
 
 And found our Lord under the evening star 
 And a bright Deva standing at his side. 
 
 (22) 
 
A Buddhist Pii^grimage — continued 
 
 And knew his comrade by the lion slain. 
 And marvelled much and long to see him 
 there, 
 
 Dreaming him rotting on the distant plain, 
 Who dwells with Buddha in the inner air. 
 
 * Whence come you, brother, whom I left for 
 dead, 
 Such worlds away by that fierce Hon torn ? ' 
 ' Oh long I wait for you,' the Deva said, 
 ' Here by his side who waits for all things 
 born.' 
 
 And gently on those brave companions smiled 
 The lyord of all things at the inner gates. 
 
 Where through long centuries by blood defiled 
 Gotama, dreaming, for the lion waits. 
 
 C23) 
 
RE-INCARNATION 
 
 The darkness draws me, kindly angels weep 
 Forlorn beyond receding rays of light, 
 
 The torrent of the earth's desires sweep 
 My soul through twilight downward into 
 night. 
 
 Once more the light grows dim, the vision 
 fades, 
 
 Myself seems to myself a distant goal ; 
 I grope among the bodies' drowsy shades. 
 
 Once more the old Illusion rocks my soul. 
 
 Once more the Manifold in shadowy streams 
 
 Of falling waters murmurs in my ears ; 
 The One Voice drowns amid the roar of 
 dreams 
 That crowd the narrow pathway of the 
 years. 
 
 I go to seek the starshine on the waves. 
 To count the dew-drops on the grassy hill ; 
 
 I go to gather flowers that grow on graves, 
 The world's will closes round my prisoned 
 will. 
 
 (24) 
 
Re-incarnation— continued 
 
 Yea, for the sake of the wild western wind. 
 The sphered spirit scorns her flame-built 
 throne ; 
 
 Because of primroses time of mind, 
 
 The Lonely turns away from the Alone. 
 
 Who once has loved the cornfields' rustling 
 sheaves, 
 Who once has heard the gentle Irish rain 
 Murmur low music in the growing leaves, 
 Though he were god, comes back to earth 
 again. 
 
 Oh earth, green wind-swept Erin, I would 
 break 
 The tower of my soul's initiate pride 
 For a gray field and a star-haunted lake 
 And those wet winds that roam the country 
 side. 
 
 I who have seen am glad to close my eyes, 
 I who have soared am weary of my wings ; 
 
 I seek no more the secret of the Wise, 
 Safe among shadowy, unreal human things. 
 
 (25) 
 
Re-incarnation — continued 
 
 Blind to the gleam of those wild violet rays 
 
 That burn beyond the rainbow's circle dim, 
 
 Bound by dark nights, and driven by pale 
 
 days, 
 
 The sightless slave of time's imperious 
 
 whim ; 
 
 Deaf to the flowing tide of dreams divine 
 That surge outside the closed gates of 
 birth, 
 
 The rhythms of Eternity, too fine 
 
 To touch with music the dull ears of Earth — 
 
 I go to seek with humble care and toil 
 The dreams I left undreamed, the deeds 
 undone, 
 To sow the seed and break the stubborn soil, 
 Knowing no brightness whiter than the 
 sun — 
 
 Content in winter if the fire burns clear 
 And cottage walls keep out the creeping 
 damp. 
 Hugging the old Illusion, warm and dear, 
 The Silence and the Wise Book and the 
 Lamp. 
 
 (26) 
 
THE BODY TO THE SOUL 
 
 You have dragged me on through the wild 
 wood ways, 
 
 You have given me toil and scanty rest ; 
 I have seen the Hght of ten thousand days 
 
 Grow dim and sink and fade in the west. 
 
 Once you bore me forth from the dusty 
 gloom, 
 Weeping and helpless and naked and bHnd ; 
 Now you would hide me deep down in the 
 tomb. 
 And wander away on the moonlit wind. 
 
 You would bury me like a thing of shame 
 
 Silently into the darkness thrust ; 
 You would mix my heart that was once a 
 flame 
 With the mouldering clay and the wander- 
 ing dust. 
 
 The eyes that wept for your sorrowful will 
 Shall be laid among evil and unclean things ; 
 
 The heart that was faithful through good 
 and ill 
 You scorn for a flutter of tawdry wings. 
 
 (27) 
 
The Body to the Soul — continued 
 
 You were the moonlight, I Uved in the sun, 
 Could there ever be peace between us twain ? 
 
 I sought the Many, you seek the One ; 
 You are the slayer, I am the slain. 
 
 Oh, soul, when you mount to your flame- 
 built throne. 
 Will you dream no dream of the broken 
 clay ? 
 Will you breathe o'er the stars on your path- 
 way strown 
 No sigh for the daisies of yesterday ? 
 
 As you wander the shining corridors, 
 A lonely wave in the ocean of light, 
 
 Have you never a thought of the lake's lost 
 shores. 
 Or the fire-lit cottage dim and white ? 
 
 Shall not the dear smell of the rain-wet soil 
 
 Through the windless spheres and the 
 
 silence float ? 
 
 Shall not my hands that are brown with toil 
 
 ' Take your dreams and high desires by the 
 
 throat ? 
 
 (28) 
 
The Body to the Soul — continued- 
 
 Behold, I reach forth from beyond the years, 
 I will cry to you from beneath the sod, 
 
 I will drag you back from the starry spheres. 
 Yea, down from the very bosom of God. 
 
 You cannot hide from the sun and the wind. 
 Or the whispered song of the April rain ; 
 
 The proud earth that moulds all things to 
 her mind. 
 Shall gather you out of the deeps again. 
 
 You shall follow once more a wandering fire. 
 You shall gaze again on the star-lit sea, 
 
 You shall gather roses out of the mire, 
 Alas, but 3^ou shall not remember me ! 
 
 (29) 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD REMEMBER 
 
 " All of them marched into the plain of I^ethe amidst 
 •dreadful heat and scorching. . . . When night came on they 
 encamped beside the river Amalete, whose water no vessel 
 contains. Of this water all of them must drink. . . . And he 
 who from time to time drinks forgets everything." — Pi,ato. 
 
 Parched and thirsty on the river bank, 
 In that pale meadow of the long since 
 dead, 
 
 Amongst the waving poppy blooms he sank, 
 Deep in long grasses laid his weary head. 
 
 Here the dead passed, a pale and changing 
 throng. 
 The king, the priest, the fighter, and the 
 knave. 
 The wronger and the sufferer of wrong. 
 The true, the false, the coward and the 
 brave. 
 
 And many Ungered by the sighing stream. 
 
 And wept a Uttle while ere they could part 
 With the sharp sword of wrath or the bright 
 dream. 
 Or the King's mantle folded round the 
 heart. 
 
 (30) 
 
The Man Who Woui.d Remember— con^'rf. 
 
 Yea, even those whose sorrows craved an 
 
 end, 
 
 Shrank from the verge of that so dark 
 
 relief, 
 
 And mourned the sad face of a dying friend 
 
 In the dim features of their fading grief. 
 
 The coward and the false, the foully slain, 
 
 The poor, forlorn, despised, shed bitter 
 
 tears, 
 
 Clung to the memory of their withered pain. 
 
 And folded round them all their heavy 
 
 years. 
 
 As Hector parted weeping from his bride 
 Ere that dark morn when Ilium's towers 
 
 So did each mourner by sad lycthe's side 
 Unto his own soul say a long farewell. 
 
 Though many a one in that dim resting- 
 place 
 
 Did from a heavy burden find release, 
 Yet all men wept over the river's grace 
 
 Of fair oblivion and most blessed peace. 
 
 (31) 
 
The Man Who Would Remember — cont'd. 
 
 And he who would remember, with sad eyes 
 
 Watched the white stars burn forth his 
 
 horoscope, 
 
 And saw his soul in many a strange disguise 
 
 Build up the baffled walls of Ught and 
 
 hope. 
 
 Soft winds swayed rustling in the fringed 
 reeds, 
 And gentle voices cried, ' Drink, dreamer, 
 drink. 
 Go forth unhindered to the life of deeds, 
 Deep in the stream thy heavy burden 
 sink/ 
 
 A poet passed him singing in great praise 
 Of fair oblivion, the Eternal's grace 
 
 To those who toil along the rough earth 
 ways 
 From life to life, finding no resting place. 
 
 He sang of moon-lit waters, rippling cool. 
 And how one might forget this life of pain. 
 
 And drown one's burden in deep Lethe's pool. 
 And be a little laughing child again. 
 
 (32) 
 
The Man Who Woui.d Remember — cont'd. 
 
 ' I will lay down/ he said, ' remembrance cold, 
 
 And all the store of dreams that once were 
 
 mine, 
 
 And thoughts and lives and wisdoms manifold, 
 
 For the restored Ught of my lost youth 
 
 divine. 
 
 A child among the children of the earth, 
 I will go forth and laugh and weep once 
 more, 
 Remembering not the woes of death and 
 birth, 
 But a new soul with new worlds to explore/ 
 
 Then at his word the ever-mourning host 
 Saw the white fearlessness of life to be 
 
 Safe in the arms of every palHd ghost, 
 The promise of a new youth shadow free. 
 
 And each one, clasping close the radiant 
 
 dream. 
 No more from the pale river's margin shrank ; 
 lyike ghostly willows bending o'er the stream. 
 The silver shadows swayed and stooped 
 
 and drank. 
 
 (33) 
 
The Man Who Woui.d Remember — cont'd. 
 
 Then did a voice speak in the dreamer's soul : 
 Drink not, behold, the tears of all men 
 flow. 
 Better set out for thine appointed goal 
 Dry-eyed and watchful with thy haunting 
 woe. 
 
 I^st thou once more should be as thou hast 
 been, 
 Hold closely thy dead selves to be thy 
 guides 
 To that lost treasure of the Light unseen 
 That in the soul of every man abides. 
 
 Who drinks of this dull tide must thirst again, 
 For him are strife and peace and death and 
 birth. 
 
 The long monotonies of joy and pain 
 That bind men to the circle of the earth. 
 
 But he who seeks beyond the waves of sleep 
 The star that shines above the shadow 
 strife, 
 
 Finds the lost stream, the well of waters deep. 
 That springeth upwards to eternal Hfe. 
 
 (34^ 
 
The Man Who Woui.d Remember — cont'd. ^ 
 
 His soul deep set in the eternal mind, 
 
 A broken light in Saturn's star-strewn 
 ring, 
 
 In blue transparent deeps of life shall find 
 The gtilf of ages but a little thing. 
 
 He shall be one with all men's striving, one 
 With every passing hour and sorrowful fate, 
 
 Whose heart through centuries of wind and 
 sun 
 Is stiU a beggar at the ivory gate. 
 
 Then he who would remember, undismayed, 
 Laid down the lovely form of shining youth,, 
 
 To the Eternal in the twilight prayed : 
 I give my childhood for thine ageless truth. 
 
 (35) 
 
THE VAGRANT'S ROMANCE 
 
 (A Re-incarnation Phantasy) 
 
 This was the story never told 
 
 By one who cared not for the world's gold. 
 
 One of the idle and unwise, 
 
 A beggar with unfathomable eyes. 
 
 One who had nothing but dreams to give 
 To men who are eager to labour and live. 
 
 For the world in its wisdom deep and dim 
 Had taken all pleasure and treasure from him. 
 
 This was the story his soul could tell. 
 Immortal and unfathomable. 
 
 There was no record m his brain, 
 He did not know he should live again. 
 
 But there was one who read the whole 
 Buried deep in a dead man's soul. 
 
 ' In the days of Atlantis, under the wave, 
 I was a slave, the child of a slave. 
 
 When the towers of Atlantis fell, 
 I died, and was born again in hell. 
 
 (36) 
 
The Vagrant's Romance — continued 
 
 From that sorrowful prison I did escape. 
 And hid myself in a hero's shape. 
 
 But few years had I of love or joy, 
 A Trojan I fell at the siege of Troy. 
 
 I came again in a little while, 
 
 An Israelite slave on the banks of the Nile. 
 
 Then did I comfort my grief-laden heart 
 With the magic lore and Egyptian art. 
 
 Fain was I to become Osiris then, 
 
 But soon I came back to the world of men. 
 
 By the Ganges I was an outcast born, 
 A wanderer and a child of scorn. 
 
 By the waters of Babylon I wept. 
 My harp amongst the willows slept. 
 
 In the land of Greece I opened my eyes 
 To reap the fields of Plotinus the wis&^^^W 
 
 I'D 3d I 
 
 When the great Ught shattered the world's 
 closed bars, v w^ri^iVv 
 
 I was a shepherd who gazed at thel - stai sxic 
 
 (37) 
 
The Vagrant's Romance — continued 
 
 For lives that were lonely, obscure, apart, 
 I thank the Hidden One in my heart. 
 
 That always and always under the sun, 
 I went forth to battle and never won. 
 
 A slayer of men, I was doomed to abide 
 For ever and aye on the losing side. 
 
 Whenever I dream of the wonderful goal, 
 I thank the hidden God in my soul 
 
 That though I have always been meanly born, 
 A tiller of earth and a reaper of corn. 
 
 Whenever through ages past and gone 
 The light divine for a moment shone; 
 
 Whenever piercing laborious night 
 
 A ray felt straight from the I^ight of Light ; 
 
 Whenever amid fierce lightning and storm 
 The divine moved in a human form ; 
 
 Whenever the earth in her cyclic course 
 Shook at the touch of an unknown force ; 
 
 (38) 
 
The Vagrant's Romance — continued 
 
 Whenever the cloud of dull years grew thin, 
 And a great star called to the Light within,. 
 
 I have braved storm and labour and sun 
 To stand at the side of that Holy One. 
 
 No matter how humble my birth has been, 
 There are few who have seen what I have 
 seen ; 
 
 Mine the shepherds' star and the reapers'' 
 
 reward, 
 And the dream of him who fell by the sword. 
 
 One thing I have learnt the long years through. 
 To know the false words from the true ; 
 
 The slave who toiled on the banks of the Nile 
 With wisdom gladdened his long exile ; 
 
 From Buddha at eve at the Ganges' side 
 An outcast learnt the worth of the world's 
 pride ; 
 
 Amongst the stars on a Syrian night, 
 
 A ragged shepherd found the Light of Light ; 
 
 (39) 
 
The Vagrant's Romance — continued 
 
 From dream to dream, o'er valley and hill, 
 I followed the lyord Christ's wandering will. 
 
 Kings there are who would barter a throne 
 For the long day's toil and the light unknown ; 
 
 The deed of the strong and the word of the 
 
 wise, 
 And the night under cold and starry skies. 
 
 The white light of dawn on the hill-side shed 
 On him who had nowhere to lay his head. 
 
 Behold, there are kings who would change 
 
 with me 
 For the love of the ancient mystery. 
 
 Shepherd and reaper and slave I have been. 
 There are few who have seen what I have 
 seen. 
 
 I have been a gipsy since those days, 
 And lived again in the wild wood ways ; 
 
 Wise with the lore of those hidden things 
 Learnt from Lord Christ in His wanderings. 
 
 (40) 
 
The Vagrant's Romance — continued 
 
 Beggar and reaper and shepherd and slave, 
 I am one who rests not in any grave ; 
 
 I will follow each stormy Light divine, 
 And the secret of all things shall be mine- 
 
 These things have I seen, would you bid me 
 
 mourn 
 That I was never an Emperor born ? 
 
 (4T) 
 
THE IMMORTAL SOUL 
 
 Pure gold did Nero's palace shine, 
 O'er mighty ships the eagles soared ; 
 
 I^rd of the world was Constantine, 
 Of a lost dream was Julian lord. 
 
 The eagles passed on blood-stained wings, 
 Blurred is the broken marble's pride ; 
 
 Yet fair amongst immortal things 
 Did that neglected dream abide. 
 
 The golden house has* passed away, 
 And sunk is every fierce trireme ; 
 
 The conquered dreamer men could slay. 
 No man could conquer the proud dream. 
 
 The trumpets, mute for many days, 
 Call forth no more the embattled host, 
 
 And Caesar in his crown of bays 
 
 Is but a weak and wandering ghost. 
 
 Yet amongst columns overthrown 
 Of the white vestal temple fair, 
 
 A pilgrim from the far unknown 
 
 Breathes here once more the golden air. 
 
 (42) 
 
The Immortai. Soui. — continued 
 
 Once more in Rome she takes her rest, 
 Holding from the great Ufe outcast, 
 
 Safe in a Uttle human breast, 
 The august secret of the past. 
 
 Into her hands in ages gone 
 
 The great dreams of the spirit fell — 
 From life to life she hands them on 
 
 Inviolate, invincible. 
 
 No great thought crumbles with the hours, 
 No dreams decay, no gods grow old ; 
 
 Though broken are the temple towers. 
 Shall not our hearts those shrines enfold ? 
 
 We look at life with our new eyes, 
 The ancient spirit in us stirs. 
 
 Piercing the flimsy fresh disguise 
 
 Wrapped round that secret past of hers. 
 
 Each soul holds all the oracles, 
 In a few years to every man 
 
 Who hears her gentle voice, she tells 
 lyife's mysteries since time began. 
 
 (43) 
 
The Immortai. Soul — continued 
 
 Like a child playing in the grass, 
 
 On through the wind-blown sunny hours 
 
 The patient ages as they pass 
 
 But fill her lap with fallen flowers. 
 
 The golden asphodel that shone 
 
 Beyond dim Hades' gate of glooms, 
 
 Great dreams of Tyre and Babylon 
 And pale Egyptian lotus blooms. 
 
 Green laurels from the victor's car. 
 Deep Syrian roses white and red, 
 
 And that pale scented Eastern star. 
 
 The jasmine flower that crowns the dead, 
 
 All these are hers, who weeping strange, 
 Deep in the heart of hearts abides ; 
 
 And all the woes of time and change 
 Beneath our joys and sorrows hides 
 
 Glad is she through the centuries 
 
 With each new morning's golden air ; 
 
 Beneath all beauty she is wise, 
 Beyond all wisdom she is fair. 
 
 (44) 
 
The Immortai. Soui. — continued 
 
 Once, in the brave lost dawn of time, 
 She watched with an exultant thrill 
 
 The crowned victor's chariot climb 
 In triumph the steep sacred hill. 
 
 Now the low wail of death and grief 
 She hears in every trumpet call ; 
 
 She shudders at the falling leaf 
 
 Who saw Troy burn and Carthage fall. 
 
 To her the conqueror's battle-cry 
 Is as a doomed army's moan ; 
 
 She has seen thousands fail and die — 
 Alas, the soul grows wise alone. 
 
 Veiled watcher in the deeps unseen, 
 Thou ancient childlike soul of mine, 
 
 lyife after life hast thou not been 
 The priestess of a crumbling shrine ? 
 
 As vestals in a city marred 
 
 By war and famine, change and fate. 
 Through the long centuries could guard 
 
 The dreams of Rome inviolate. 
 
 (45) 
 
The Immortai. Soui^ — continued 
 
 So has she held in her long trust 
 The wisdom and the fire of earth ; 
 
 "She stands between us and the dust, 
 
 From death to death, from birth to birth. 
 
 And ever, through sunshine and cloud. 
 She guards the ancient holy flame, 
 
 And shares with all things fair and proud 
 Her radiant secret whence she came. 
 
 Hers are the dreams that once were Rome's, 
 No light nor flame shall she forget ; 
 
 Deep in her secret catacombs 
 
 The lyord Christ's footsteps linger yet. 
 
 ■Older than Rome, through ages dark 
 She knew swift smiles and bitter tears, 
 
 And heard the singing of the lark. 
 
 Self-conscious through ten thousand years. 
 
 Strong with a strange transfigured youth, 
 The ages cannot break her wings ; 
 
 She is the witness of the truth, 
 The guardian of immortal things. 
 
 (46) 
 
The ImmortaIv Soul — continued 
 
 Scant new light on her path is shed, 
 She follows where the dreamers trod; 
 
 Behind the banners of the dead, 
 Unto the temple of the God. 
 
 (47) 
 
CRUCIFIXION 
 
 In the crowd's multitudinous mind 
 
 Terror and passion embrace, 
 Whilst the darkness heavily blind 
 
 Hides face from horror-struck face ; 
 And all men, huddled and dumb. 
 
 Shrink from the death-strangled cry, 
 And the hidden terror to come, 
 
 And the dead men hurrying by. 
 White gleam the limbs of the dead 
 
 Raised high o'er the blood-stained sod, 
 And the soldier shuddered and said, 
 
 'lyO, this was the Son of God/ 
 Nay, but all lyife is one, 
 
 A wind that wails through the vast. 
 And this deed is never done. 
 
 This passion is never past. 
 When any son of man by man's blind doom 
 
 On any justest scaffold strangled dies. 
 Once more across the shadow-stricken gloom 
 
 Against the sun the dark-winged Horror 
 flies, 
 A lost voice cries from the far olive trees 
 
 Weary and harsh with pain, a desolate cry. 
 What ye have done unto the least of these 
 
 Is done to God in Heaven, for earth and sky, 
 And bird and beast, green leaves and golden 
 sun. 
 
 Men's dreams, the starry dust, the bread, 
 the wine, 
 
 (48) 
 
Crucifixion — continued 
 
 Rivers and seas, my soul and his, are one 
 Through all things flows one life austere, 
 divine, 
 Strangling the murderer you are slaying me, 
 Scattering the stars and leaves like broken 
 bread, 
 Casting dark shadows on the sun-lit sea. 
 Striking the swallows and the sea-gulls 
 dead. 
 Making the red rose wither to its fall. 
 
 Darkening the sunshine, blasting the green 
 sod, — 
 Wounding one soul, you wound the soul of 
 all, 
 The unity of lyife, the soul of God. 
 
 (49) 
 
THE MYSTIC 
 
 " Your soul hath set sail like a returning Odysseus for 
 its native land." — P1.0TINUS. 
 
 Nay, though green fields are fair 
 
 And the fiords are blue, 
 I need a clearer air, 
 
 I need a region new. 
 Out beyond the Northern Ivights, 
 
 Where the white Polar Day 
 
 To herself in silence sings, 
 
 Without thought of words or wings. 
 The secret of a hundred nights. 
 
 I shall find there I know 
 
 The lost city of my birth. 
 Innocent white wastes of snow, 
 
 A new heaven and a new earth. 
 Neither lamb, nor calf, nor kid, 
 
 In those lonely meadows play. 
 
 All things calm and silent are 
 
 Underneath the Polar star. 
 Where all my dreams are hid. 
 
 I am sick of wind and tide — 
 Tired of this rocking boat. 
 
 Creaking ever as we glide 
 
 Into the white waste remote ; 
 
 Out there no sound is heard 
 
 Save the icebergs' crash and grind. 
 
 No human voice e'er shuddered through 
 
 The realms of white, the realms of blue. 
 
 Nor cry of a sea-bird. 
 
 (50) 
 
The Mystic — continued 
 
 lyving at ease in the dark ship 
 
 I watched the last pale night depart, 
 
 I dreamt I saw blue shadows slip 
 
 O'er the white snowfields in my heart ; 
 
 And the world had grown so wide 
 There was room for all mankind — 
 The icebergs round about the Pole 
 Crashed in the silence of my soul, 
 
 And hemmed me in on every side. 
 
 In that crowded world of white 
 There are many joys unknown. 
 
 Without colour there is light, 
 Loneliness for the alone, 
 
 Heedless stars, that blaze and shine, 
 O'er the world's untrodden edge ; 
 You come with me you who dare, 
 Leave the cart and the plough-share 
 
 For the white horizon line. 
 
 Over many seas we sail, 
 
 Passing many peopled shores ; 
 
 Like the Greek in the old tale 
 Homeward sailing from the wars. 
 
 Gentle voices bid us rest 
 
 From green isle or barren sedge, 
 ' In our world all things are new, 
 We have passed away from you, 
 
 You must seek another guest.' 
 
 (51) 
 
The Mystic — continued 
 
 Voices of enchanted time 
 
 Call to us to leave our ships 
 
 Hyacinths of honeyed rhyme 
 Float from Aphrodite's lips ; 
 
 We for Circe born unkind. 
 All the songs the sirens sing 
 Seem but idly to oppress 
 Hearts in love with lonelinesS; 
 
 Sails that flutter in the wind. 
 
 O'er the wide cold wastes serene 
 Rise the walls of wandering white, 
 
 Circles of strange gods unseen 
 In the electric arc unite. 
 
 Arctic faces flash and glide, 
 
 Glimmers many a flaming wing, 
 Where the sether strains to hold 
 The hard heart of the Manifold, 
 
 All the greater gods abide. 
 
 (52) 
 
SANO DI PIETRO 
 
 (Siena) 
 
 * 
 
 Floating in pale-rose waves the sun has set, 
 
 Slowly on silver feet doth twilight glide 
 Among the hills, flooding with violet 
 
 Those marble mountains w^here the gods 
 abide. 
 Here Sano's hngering dim Madonnas hold 
 
 The sky and all its stars and mysteries, 
 In their strange robes of shadowy blue and 
 
 gold. 
 Here voices haunt the twisted olive trees 
 
 With magic whispers of a far-off goal. 
 Where fortune finds, beyond her turning 
 wheel 
 
 All light and colour in the radiant soul. 
 Here with the sunset's all-enfolding dream 
 
 Harsh lines and broken curves do blend and 
 cease. 
 lyO, the hoar oHves on the mountains gleam — 
 
 The hills grow pale with that white dream 
 of peace. 
 Ah, let no sob of pain, nor bitter cry. 
 
 The fragile robe of beauty rend or soil ; 
 Slay not the smallest creature doomed to die, 
 
 The fruit of milHon weary years of toil. 
 Here, in this little city on the height, 
 
 Hatred and sorrow into shadow blend. 
 Deep in rose marble sinks the evening Hght, 
 
 And all things come to beauty at the end. 
 
 . (53) 
 
Sano di Piktro — continued 
 
 Of days to come, here might one dream 
 awhile — 
 How men were gentle and had ceased to 
 kill, 
 How Sano dead such years ago would smile. 
 To find the world grown lovely with 
 goodwill. 
 
 (54) 
 
THE LAND TO THE LANDLORD 
 
 You hug to your soul a handful of dust, 
 And you think the round world your sacred 
 
 trust — 
 But the sun shines and the wind blows,. 
 And nobody cares and nobody knows. 
 
 Oh, the bracken waves and the foxgloves; 
 
 flame. 
 And none of them ever has heard your name j 
 Near and dear is the curlew's cry, 
 You are but a stranger passing by. 
 
 Sheer up through the shadows the mountain 
 
 towers. 
 And dreams wander free through this world 
 
 of ours ; 
 Though you may turn the grass to gold, 
 The twilight has left you out in the cold. 
 
 Though you are king of the rose and the 
 
 wheat. 
 Not for you, not for you is the bog-myrtle 
 
 sw^eet ; 
 Though you are lord of the long grass, 
 The hemlock bows not her head as you pass. 
 
 (55) 
 
The IvAnd to the Landwrd — continued 
 
 The poppies would flutter amongst the corn 
 Even if you had never been born ; 
 With your will, or without your will, 
 The ragweed can wander over the hill. 
 
 Down there in the bog where the plovers 
 
 call. 
 You are but an outcast after all ; 
 Over your head the sky gleams blue. 
 Not a cloud or a star belongs to you ! 
 
 (56 
 
IN TIR-NAN-OGUE 
 
 (From The Triumph of Maevk) 
 
 In the Queen's Dun a heavy curtain shuts 
 The sun out, all the air is dark and cool, 
 
 In Tir-nan-ogue the wind-blown hazelnuts 
 Drop down through sunlight into a clear 
 pool. 
 
 And knowledge dwells where the red berries 
 are, 
 And wisdom among the waters cool and 
 bright. 
 Wherein deep sunken many a drowned star 
 Burns with a secret and unearthly light. 
 
 Not in the Judgment Hall shall the Queen 
 find 
 
 Wisdom, nor on the breast of warring seas, 
 But in lost waters where a haunted wind 
 
 Rustles the green boughs of the hazel trees. 
 
 (57) 
 
PALLAS OF THE TIDES 
 
 In profound sighs the Atlantic voices gHde 
 
 Nearer and nearer, drenching field and hill 
 With the wild glory of the rising tide 
 
 And broken light of lost Athenes' will. 
 On the waves march 
 
 To their shadowy goal, 
 Each green translucent .arch 
 
 Is a shrine for the world's soul — 
 Oh, gray-eyed goddess, patient-browed and 
 brave, 
 
 From Aphrodite thou hast reft her shrine 
 In the green arch of an Atlantic wave 
 
 Do thy white brows and dreadful breast- 
 plate shine. 
 White Aphrodite rising long ago 
 
 In that far isle girt round with coral bars 
 Out of the silver of the tides' flow, 
 
 Knew never such a storm of waves and 
 stars. 
 Nay, for the tide of the mind » . . 
 
 Shall it not rise 
 With the evening wind 
 
 Under sunset skies ? 
 Then shall the floods at twilight onward pour 
 
 O'er rock and pool to drench the shining air 
 Beyond the farther and the nearer shore. 
 
 Till all fair forms are merged and lost in 
 the one and radiant Fair. 
 
 (58) 
 
UNSEEN KINGS 
 
 Once long ago, secluded and alone, 
 
 A king dwelt in the mountains near the 
 sky ; 
 
 And brooding darkness hung about his throne, 
 His people loved him as a memory. 
 
 All day the castle doors were locked and 
 barred. 
 No man went forth and none might enter 
 in; 
 Whilst round his throne the great hills kept 
 their guard, 
 Serenely pure above our dust and din. 
 
 He dwelt a wizard on enchanted ground, 
 No human power could storm or desecrate 
 
 The high inviolate walls that folded round 
 A life beyond the dreams of love or hate. 
 
 At dark when doors are barred, and all safe 
 souls 
 Creep to the chimney-nook, whilst the dim 
 light 
 Burns low and flickers in the glowing coals, 
 The great king rode abroad into the night. 
 
 (59) 
 
Unseen Kings — continued 
 
 And peasants brooding by the peat fires' 
 glare, 
 In many a crazy hut in dreamy mood, 
 Unmoved by the wild powers of the air 
 And the boughs crashing in the shaken 
 wood, 
 
 Fearless amid a storm of thunder peals, 
 Started and crossed themselves time out of 
 mind 
 
 To hear the distant sound of chariot wheels 
 And horses galloping along the wind. 
 
 Thus have I heard in thunder-laden hours, 
 Moving amid the stormy heart of things. 
 
 The footsteps of the soul's encrowned powers. 
 The echoing chariot wheels of Unseen 
 Kings. 
 
 (60) 
 
UNITY 
 
 The primrose has her gentle root 
 A hundred miles beyond the sod, 
 
 Deep buried in the Absolute, 
 Safe in the inmost will of God. 
 
 The One Thing that is everything, 
 Is very close to grass and trees ; 
 
 Hers is the song the satyrs sing, 
 
 The wild fern clings about her knees. 
 
 And Psyche's lamp, and Buddha's dream,. 
 
 Those words that shall not fade or pass. 
 Are but the lilt of a lost stream 
 
 That flows under the world's grass. 
 
 (6i) 
 
MAN AND WOMAN 
 
 When Solomon of old 
 
 Shewed all his stuffs of silver sheen 
 And walls inlaid with gold 
 
 To Sheba's Queen, 
 Her very spirit sank in her, 
 
 Such treasure of white ivory 
 And crystal bowls and scented fir 
 
 And marble did she see. 
 And loud she praised the great King's store 
 
 Of carven wood and flashing stone, 
 Where cedar was as sycamore 
 
 Before the lion-guarded throne. 
 And all his words were very wise, 
 
 And his great temple passing fair. 
 And humble were her soft replies 
 
 Treading his ivory stair. 
 But when she came to her own place 
 
 She smiled to think of him. 
 And all the glory and the grace 
 
 Of his wise words grew dim. 
 Behold, she sent a slave 
 
 With gifts unto the King ; 
 She bade her goldsmiths cut and grave 
 
 For him an agate ring. 
 "" This, too, will pass,' the Queen's reply 
 
 From her dark jewel shone ; 
 Thus did she answer with a sigh 
 
 The Wise King Solomon. 
 
 (62) 
 
THE, AQ^TE LAMP 
 
 How is it doomed to end ? 
 
 Shall I, when I come again, 
 
 Watch the old sun in a new eclipse, 
 
 Breathe the same air with different lips, 
 
 With a new heart love the same old friend ? 
 
 How shall I hold the thread ? 
 The brittle thread of the past 
 On through the terrible maze, 
 The lab^^rinth of lost days — 
 A pilgrim through tireless centuries vast, 
 When one dreams with the living and sleeps 
 with the dead ? 
 
 What is there that will not change 
 
 That I can recognize ? 
 
 The sun and the wind and the April rain. 
 
 And the wild seas shining plain ; 
 
 The ancient joy in the world's young eyes. 
 
 The blue hills' dim eternal range. 
 
 (63) 
 
Tkh^ •AGtA.ipE-   ivAMP- -ccntinued 
 
 Ah ! there are other things 
 
 That shall not fade — 
 
 The painter's dream, the poet's thought. 
 
 The calm browed Muse in marble wrought ; 
 
 Pan's pipes out of dry reeds at twilight 
 
 made — 
 And Orpheus' lute, and Nike's wind-blown 
 
 wings. 
 
 (64) 
 
At all Booksellers. Crown 8vo. Maize-paper wrappers, Is. net; 
 art linen, 2s. 6d. net. 
 
 THE LITTLE BOOKS OF 
 GEORGIAN VERSE 
 
 MANX SONG AND MAIDEN SONG. By Mona Dougi^as. 
 With a General Introduction. 
 
 POEMS. By Lieut. C. A. Macartney. 
 
 HEATHER WAYS. By Hyi.da C. C01.E. 
 
 THE FIELDS OP HEAVEN. By Nora Tynan O'Mahony. 
 
 ROAD OF LIFE. By IanThe Jerroi^d. 
 
 DREAMS O' MINE. By G. W. Bur.r.ETT. 
 
 ODDS AND ENDS. By V101.ET Tweedai^E. 
 
 POEMS. By E. H. K. 
 
 From one of many reviews : " Mrs. O'IMahony has the lyrical gift. She has a 
 delicate and pure vocabulary. Her sadness is not so insistent but it is lightened 
 by the joy before. Before the war — that strange time in which it seems difficult 
 to believe — the world might have turned its deafened ear to these pure har- 
 monies. Now that the world is discovering it has a soul there will be many 
 glad of such poetry as this, absolutely without artifice, straight from the heart, 
 country songs. There is hearts-ease, too, woundwort and hearts-ease. Not one 
 of these poems but could be understood by a peasant or a child, and yet they 
 might touch the fount of tears in the wisest, the most sophisticated." — The New 
 Witness. 
 
 Uniform with the above, blue wrappers, Is. net ; 
 canvas boards, 2s. 6d. net. 
 
 THE XXTH CENTURY POETRY SERIES 
 
 The initial volumes are now ready. 
 
 THE FURTHER GOAL. By G11.BERT Thomas, author of 
 The Wayside Altar, The Voice and Place, etc., with an 
 Introduction by Arthur Waugh. 
 
 THE YOUTH OF BEAUTY. By E. Cecii. Roberts, author of 
 Eyes of Youth, etc., with an Introduction by Dr. Macmillan. 
 
 THE PERILOUS LIGHT. By Eva Gore-Booth, author of 
 The Agate Lamp, The One and the Many, etc. 
 
 Other volumes in preparation. 
 
 ERSKINE MAGDONALD 
 
 Mai^ory House, Featherstone Buii^dings, Loneon, W.C. 
 
"A BRAVE ADVENTURE" 
 
 " Here is a brave new publishing adventure which I know will take your 
 ancy. Mr. Erskine MacDonald, one of the most alive and cnttrpiising of our 
 younger publishers, has just issued the first volumes in a stiics of ' l,ittle Books 
 of Georgian Verse," under the capable editorship of Miss S. Geitn.de Ford." — 
 From " What to Read " in The Bookman. 
 
 " The Ivittle Georgian Books of a publisher who deserves commendation." — 
 New Witness. 
 
 " Compels by its very audacity some admiration. . . . The little collections 
 of verse are uniformly timeful and happily phrased. The writers are touched 
 readily by beautiful things in nature or by fairy fancies, and sing of them easily 
 and aptly." — The Times. 
 
 " We are glad to welcome a new endeavour to popularize the work of present- 
 day poets. The editor and publisher of this definite series of contemporary 
 verse hope that by judicious and sympathetic selection of the volumes the con 
 fidence of the discriminating public interested in new poetry will be gained ; 
 that ' each little volume of authentic promise or distinctive achievement will be 
 found to contain something really notable and precious in the best sense of the 
 term . . . that they will prove that new verse as well as more utilitarian books 
 can be published successfully at a low price.' It is all to the good that the 
 promoters of this interesting undertaking have placed before themselves so 
 definite an ideal ; and they may be sure that if, as they think, the present genera- 
 tion is more responsive now than at any previous time to the spirit of poetry, 
 the enterprise will not be allowed to fail." — The Bookseller. 
 
 THE QUALITY OF THE LITTLE BOOKS OF 
 GEORGIAN VERSE 
 
 " It is a bold and interesting experiment that Mr. Erskine MacDonald is 
 making with the Georgian series of daintily produced volumes of verse by 
 writers of the neo-Georgian era ; it is bold because there is a tradition — it has 
 been refuted again and again — that ' poetry doesn't pay,' a saying which is paral- 
 leled by the old theatre tag that ' Shakespeare spells bankruptcy.' There have, 
 fortunately both for writers of poetry and for readers thereof, always been 
 publishers who have flown in the face of tradition, and have proved it wrong. 
 . . . Now Mr. MacDonald is following the same admirable course, and is, in 
 slang parlance, going even one better than his contemporaries, and producing 
 his latest renderings of the age in song in a perfectly tasteful way at the price of 
 a shilling a volume. Judging by the first four volumes of the series, the new 
 venture assturedly deserves success, for it can safely be said that in the matter of 
 beautiful paper and type and neat covers the publisher has done his best to that 
 end. The general editor of the series is Miss S. Gertrude Ford, who may be 
 warmly congratulated upon the ' finds ' represented in the first quartet of her 
 poets. In ' Manx Song and Maiden Song,' by Mona Douglas, we have, to use 
 Mi33 Ford's words, ' the imforced product of a young girl's heart and mind ; the 
 reflex of spontaneous thought and inborn feeling for country, for nature and for 
 art ' ; we have it in such ever -new old lyric forms as will, it may confidently be 
 predicted, long outlive the eccentricities of versification in which some writers 
 have sought to give self-conscious utterance to the thoughts of the new era. 
 Miss Douglas finds her inspiration in the scenes and memories of the Isle of 
 Man, and gives it expression in simple, sweet verse that has a haunting charm. 
 . . . The ' Poems ' of I^ieutenant C. Macartney strike another note : they 
 reflect, as it were, something of deeper feeling, more of musing, and include 
 echoes from the undying classics not unexpected in a young Wykehamist. . . . 
 A wistful note of sadness rings through many of Mrs. Nora Tynan O'Mahony's 
 poems in ' The Fields of Heaven,' yet all are instinct with appreciation of the 
 beauty of nature, of flowers, trees and streams, though that beauty frequently 
 but wakens thoughts of the loved and lost. There is indeed in many of these 
 pieces a tender sincerity which makes the reader feel almost ashamed, as though 
 at overhearing the intimate commimings oi private sorrow, but that same 
 sincerity informing Mrs. O'Mahony's song will often strike an answering chord 
 and make of her book of verses something of a loved companion. The ' Heather 
 Ways ' of Miss Hylda C. Cole is a collection of bright open-air pieces mostly on 
 themes shggested by the Scottish hills. Miss Cole's work has mostly an air of 
 merry spontaneity which will commend it to many readers. These Little Books 
 of Georgian Verse are all so good that they should have a considerable success as small 
 greeting-gifts on birthdays and ether occasions. — Daily Telegraph. 
 
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