W/Z3AI7 /9/5 DEMS BY C, A. MACARTNEY lifornia tonal lity THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES B, OEMS THE WILLIAM MORRIS PRESS LTD. FORTY-TWO :: ALBERT STREET MANCHESTER eMs By Lieut. C • A • MACARTNEY London • Erskine Macdonald Feathcrstone Buildings, Holborn, W.C. MCMXV O N T E N T S Dedicatory 9 Ballade of a Cathedral Close II Poppies 12 To a Bat 13 Lost 14 Galatea 15 March Nights 17 The Ballad of the Lunatic 19 The Gargoyle 21 Ballade of Babylon 23 Christmas Morning 24 Christmas Carol 25 Circe 27 The Golden Hour 29 Outside 31 Sir Bryan de Borne 33 To an Owl 34 Nocturne 35 Dreams 37 The Song of Pan 38 861i« EDITOR'S NOTE These poems are the worJ^ of a young lieutenant of the CNjtw Army. Written for the most part before the war, they reflect it in one instance only : the poem immediately following the introduction and dedication. They are therefore representative, in a peculiar degree, of the poetic outlook and mental habitude of the new generation in the days before the cataclysm. With a very few exceptions, they were produced in the course of a single year; and indicate, in their themes as in their thoughts, with what the youngest of our poets were con- cerned in days which have now acquired an almost historic interest ^z&^tjZjz^c&^^^^^jbjt^js Five of the poems (the " "Ballade of Babylon" " Galatea;' " The Qolden Hour" « The Bal- lad of the Lunatic," and " The Gargoyle " hd)>e appeared in The Wykehamist, and are included by courteous permission of the proprietors. The rest are here published for the first time ^jt^ji S. GERTRUDE FORD DEDICATOR C7 I MIND me that the story lies K*^S A-written in some book of old, How Love divine can alchemize Base metals to a kinglier gold; And how, where Etna's cliffs o'erhang And blue Sicilian wavelets break, The rugged Cyclops sweetly sang, Turned poet for his dear nymph's sake. Another place, another time ; Yet still, methinks, the tale is true, And here, in England's misty clime, I am turned poet, loving you. Unworthy, all unworthy I, Yet this I know, I too would sing ; Mayhap here too Love's alchemy May fashion a diviner thing. And if in this my humble lay The words seem weak, the numbers halt, Impute it to my ruder clay, But O! call not my love's the fault. BALLADE OF A CATHEDRAL CLOSE EFORE me on the crown Of yonder hilltop high The stark howitzers frown Remorseless cruelty. A sullen shell screams by — I heed not how it goes, Seeing in memory The old Cathedral close. The elm leaves flutter down And round the wet lawns fly In tawny eddies blown Which mar their greenery. A pearly-tinted sky The naked boughs disclose, And bare to every eye The old Cathedral close. The clamours of the town Come faint as dark winds sigh, Nor can avail to drown Its sweet tranquillity. Each mellowing century Has sweetened its repose ; No strife has e'er come nigh The old Cathedral close. ENVOIE. So I must still defy The menace of our foes, And save, if I should die, The old Cathedral close. ii O P P I E NCE in sun-scorched August weather Through the corn we walked together, She and I, in days of old, Where great poppies, gay and flaunting, Shook beneath a tired wind's panting, Scarlet in a world of gold. Flowers of blood and flowers of fire, Noon of passion and desire ! When the chill winds rend the west Fair in dreams I see her ; fairer Through the waning fields they bear her, Faded poppies at her breast. Would I were in those dim meadows Where no moon makes dark the shadows, Where no stars for ever shine, Only soft winds ghostly straying Set thy drowsy poppies swaying, Thy white poppies, Proserpine. 12 O A B A c?V c OW, as the sunset of warm September Pales to the coming of scented night, Past where my cigarette's red ember Glows in the gathering dusk more bright. Over my shoulder you swoop and hover, Come to look at the light. In and out of the tall yew hedges I watch you turn and double and race After the myriad dancing midges ; Now again, for a moment's space, Sudden and sharply silhouetted Crossing the low moon's face. Once, they tell us, a human baby, Little brown ghost, you too were born, Just for an hour or a minute, maybe, Struggled with life and died forlorn, And the soul too frail to mount up to heaven Lingers on earth to mourn. O, but grieve not for your portion, given By pitying angels, as they tell — Instead of a hope of a wardered heaven, Instead of a terror of murky hell, Summer and dusk and a moonlit garden And plenty of gnats as well. 13 LOST SUGGESTED BY A MIDNIGHT RIDE, THROUGH DENSE MIST, THROUGH THE SMALL HOURS OF CHRISTMAS MORNING, I9I4 f / N the dark hours, in the small hours ^When life runs cold in the blood, t-m^r When dreamers upon their bed Dream they walk with the dead, When nothing wakes for good — In the bleak hours, in the cold hours, When the doors of the house are fast, When men that wake in the night Shake with a dim affright, And long that the time were past — In the late hours, in the black hours, I wander in fog and night, And my lanthorn's light thrown back Cannot show me the track, But blinds and baffles my sight. In the chill hours, in the dumb hours, I can hear no living sound, Nothing of earth is here, But the things of ghostly fear Which compass me all around. In the dead hours, in the fey hours, Evil has power on high. Nothing is here to see, But horror enfoldeth me, And my soul is lost as I. H GALATEA eXd ARK how afar a sudden gleam is flushing The milky clouds above the eastern wold, And now with flame-wrought chariot upward rushing From his dim chambers flecked with orient gold, The young Sun-god in saffron raiment bright Drives hard upon the sombre-skirted night. The chilly sea-spray wets each glistening boulder, Bright gossamer enmeshes every tree; A mist is on the green hill's grassy shoulder Which slopes towards the dark, unquiet sea — Mist which before the sun's first burning ray Wavers and melts and billowing rolls away. And shivering in the nipping April weather, Wet with the early dews of misty morn, Around the pen door flocking altogether Untended, pitiable and forlorn, The white sheep patient, unregarded call To Polypheme, who heeds them not at all. Ever with sad flute melancholy wailing Lonely the Cyclops by the grey sea side Pipes his dear Galatea still unfailing, Pipes her at dawn, at dewy eventide, And the high moon at midnight hears his moan And sees his vigil, comfortless and lone. 15 So he in hopeless, passionate adoring, In heavy anguish and untold distress, Softens with song his soul's obscured outpouring, Brightens to melody his bitterness, And in deep travail, for his dear nymph's sake, A thing divine of his rough soul doth make. But she — his innocent, adored sea-maiden, Light as the foam and pure as morning wind — Heeds not her faithful Cyclops sorrow-laden, But mocks him, now sweet-smiling, now unkind ; Nor pities him, but lets him still abide Piping his sorrows to the sad sea side. 16 MARCH NIGHTS 7> LEASANT are warm days of June And Autumn's misty harvest moon, And pleasant in December days A seat before a log-fire's blaze, But most in this my soul delights, Which most it loathes, the warm March nights- To lie with window open wide, To lie and feel the spring's full tide Course with a joy as keen as pain Through every limb and every vein, Until I toss and turn about In anguished longing to be out, To leave my bed and warm fireside And climb the wind-swept, wet hillside — To be out there, to be but there, Freely to breathe the untrammelled air, Where rain is falling, winds are blowing And every little thing is growing, And in the obscure womb of the earth The tender grassblades come to birth, And leave the warmth which did enfold And shelter them from winter's cold, And from the chilly breezes shrink, And of the ragged rain-clouds drink Their frequent boon, and wax and grow As morn and evening come and go — Till sudden over everything, In hill and field, comes in the spring — ■ 17 O then nor fireside nor roof Nor all man's arts can make me proof, But clearly, Earth, thou callest me With all thine ancient witchery. By spell of wind and rain and sun Thou callest back thy traitor son, And as I lie and list to thee, Then my delight is agony. Against thee all my being's ends — Labouring life and hard-won friends— With bonds of steel they fetter me— Mother, I may not follow thee. 18 THE BALLAD OF THE LUNATIC n», HEN it's early in the morning, Father and Jim get up ; They work all day at their ploughing Without nor bite nor sup : I sit by the fireside And dream the day away ; I know what's worth knowing A deal better than they. The moon ! the moon ! He shines in as I lie in bed, Over my pillow and round my head. Jim and Father can't see nowt, Snorting and snoring the whole night out ; Only I'm awake then Under the moon. Everything's dull and dusty When the sun shines by day ; It's ever so far and hazy And hundreds of miles away. It never comes near a body, Nor tries to make un a friend, So I sleep out the sunlight Until the day's end. But the moon ! the moon ! He peeps in so friendly and near, With his yellow face all bright and clear. He alius smiles when he sees me, And talks as cheery as he can be. A man can't be lonely then Under the moon. 19 If you walk abroad by daylight, You never do see nowt But silly chirruping linnets And blackbirds hopping about ; The sun and the men between 'em Have driven them all away ; None of the things that are friendly Ever come out by day. But the moon ! the moon ! He brings out all the things that are nice, The little brown furry fiittermice And the owls that nest in the rafter-tops And the gurt old badger from Lenderby copse. Everything's my friend then Under the moon. When I walk down the street in the daytime, The little boys all shout, Look at luney Billy, Watch un mooning about ! " I don't care for their shouting ; I let 'em say their say. I know what's to my liking A deal better nor they. The moon ! the moon ! When I get up in the middle of night And dance in the street by the moonlight, They lie all huddled under the clo'es, For fear a bogey should catch their toes; They're all afraid of me then, Under the moon. 20 THE GARGOYLE 7/ P in a palace fairy All populous with his kind, Intricate crannies airy Free to the gusty wind, Where moss in the cracks grows greenly, And the parapet stones begin, The gargoyle sits serenely And gives a sardonic grin. The jackdaws wheel and follow, Flutter and squawk and caw, And nest in spring in the hollow Behind his outstretched paw. He sheltered their generations In centuries long since dead, So he smiles with a weary patience, And lets them perch on his head. The years flit past, and ever He has looked unwearying down On the elms and the close and the river And the steep, red roofs of the town ; The elms grow old and crumble And rot in the autumn rains, And the houses crack and tumble, But the gargoyle still remains. 21 The wind blows round the towers And lichens cover his face ; A thousand thousand showers Have rotted him in his place ; But he sits as he was fashioned Hundreds of years ago, Serene and unimpassioned And grins at the world below. 22 BALLADE OF BABYLON ELL me, where are those golden bowers That stood so proudly in olden days, Westering Camelot's lofty towers, Under the sunlight all ablaze ? Tall Troy's ramparts and God-built ways Which lovely Helen walked upon— All the cities of ancient praise — Where are the walls of Babylon ? Boys and maidens in sunny hours Lightly whirled in the dance's maze, Crowned with garlands of fresh-plucked flowers Gathered by blue yEgean bays — Their limbs are cold and their eyes aglaze, Dust 'neath their dust-dimmed Parthenon. Fallen is Athens of ancient praise — Where are the walls of Babylon ? Her streets are wet with a million showers ; Seen alone of the cold moon's rays About her palaces and her towers All unafraid the satyr strays, And the great owl makes her nest and lays And broods in silence where once there shone The pomp of queens and their ancient praise — Where are the walls of Babylon ? ENVOIE Her domes are fallen ; the wild goats graze All her ruinous homes upon. Where are the cities of ancient praise ? Where are the walls of Babylon ? 23 CHRISTMAS MORNING HE red sun sends his beams again A-slanting through my window pane, And tinges with his ruddy light My coverlet of snowy white. The finger of the frost doth pass To write strange patterns on the glass And covers with a glistening cloak The hoary branches of the oak. All white the oxen's breath doth show, And the grass crunches as they go, And from the farmyard, hark! I hear The cry of drowsy chanticleer. The sun, the hills, the frosty lawn Do all rejoice this Christmas dawn ; " Peace and goodwill," they seem to say, " Our Saviour Christ is born to-day i " 24 CHRISTMAS CAROL G OD rest all good people, and keep them free from harm Who sit by their fireside, so happy and warm; We are three poor children who trudge through the snow, A-singing how our Saviour was born long ago. As we came up the high road, that up the hill does lead, We saw a weary traveller and we bade him God speed. God rest all good travellers and be He good to them, For Joseph was weary who came to Bethlehem. As we came through the village, what should we see. But a poor young mother with her babe upon her knee. God bless all poor mothers and keep them from the cold, For Mary was a mother at Christmas-tide of old. As we came up the pathway and passed by the byre, We heard the oxen lowing as they stamped amid the mire. Then be gentle, good people, to the oxen God hath made ; Remember how our Saviour was in a manger laid. 25 As we came by the sheepfold, the snow it shone so white; The shepherd was watching and he bade us a good night. Remember how to shepherds the angel did appear, Which brought down unto mankind the tidings of good cheer. As we came through the village and passed the churchyard by, We saw a star a-shining, low down in the sky. Then be thankful, good people, remember how a star Did lead the three wise men, coming from afar. As we came by the churchyard, the church bells they rang ; The people all rejoiced to hear how we sang. Be kind to us, good people, who stand in the snow, A-singing how our Saviour was born long ago, Was born once in Bethlehem, a long while ago. 26 R C E IGHT, fevered night ! the drowsy stars are waning; The earth is still; only a weary breeze Moans, like a soul in agony complaining, In mournful concert with the languorous seas ; And failing Hecate, flushed and angry-red, Steals through the heavy-massing thunderclouds o'erhead. Within the ivory palace stands a chamber With walls bejewelled gloriously a-shine ; As red as blood, as bright as yellow amber, On carven tables stands rich, odorous wine, And, dim-eyed through the musky, fainting air, Wan lamplight gleams on nightmare forms that cluster there. The dying light, with fitful glimmer mocking Our enchanted eyes, forbids us still to know What monstrous forms these be in dumb herds flocking, What shapes, bemused, unnatural, grovelling low — If man they be, abased in swinish guise, Or swine that look their longing from still human eyes. V And look ! apart, with magic ray discerning, The lamplight shines upon that lovely face, Red, smiling lips and wanton, dark eyes burning, Her breast's enchantment, all her body's grace — That fair witch-queen so awful and so sweet, The very swine adore who crouch beneath her feet. Ah, most beautiful, ah, pale witch Circe, Thou queen supreme of never-dying fire, Do those sweet eyes know neither love nor mercy, But only cold, insatiate desire ? Pitiest thou naught those sad herds following mute, Whom love of thee has changed from man to hateful brute ? O thou all-powerful, O thou all-adored, O queen of all desire, all sin, all pain, Wilt thou not hear our anguished prayer outpoured, And give us back our human souls again ? Wilt thou not heed our passion and our woe And turn, and give us back our pride of long ago ? Vainly we cry : she hears us not nor hearkens, But smiles upon us with those sweet, dark eyes. The wan light sinks, the chamber dims and darkens, And round about the heavy night-wind sighs. O never hear us, thou that art so fair ! Let us bide with thee, and forget what once we were ! 28 THE GOLDEN HOUR 1U HEN the late sun down the sky- Slanting shines and mellow, Then, athwart the darkling streams, High the great downs catch his beams, Neath the low light's alchemy Strange and dim and yellow. Whoso in the golden hour Through the downland passes, Let him hasten and beware, For enchanted is the air; Magic stirs in every flower, Whispers in the grasses. Hhave walked at close of day When the sun was dying ; I have seen the fairy gold Scattered round in wealth untold, And beside it, gaunt and grey, Guardian griffins lying. I have heard the witches sing Spells of good and evil, Seen about me, passing by, Magic fires leap and die Round the serpent-guarded ring Where they keep their revel. 29 Once I saw a noble knight Down the valley riding, All in shining gold arrayed ; Fair the glinting sunbeams played ; Proudly paced the great milkwhite Steed he was bestriding. Would that knight I could forget Whom I might not follow ! So he passed and so was gone, Riding down to Avalon ; Grey dawn found me wandering yet Lonely in the hollow. 30 OUTSIDE OR us to-night with cheerful gleams The flickering firelight paints the beams : We hear upon the shuttered pane The impotent and wrathful rain. Secure and warm, we let it drive, We happy ones that are alive. But listen — when the fire burns low, The stubborn wind has ceased to blow, Above the beating of the rain We hear them mutter and complain ; How sad they cry and wearied, The poor, forlorn, forgotten dead. Once in the old and ghostly years They throbbed with hopes and shook with fears ; Perhaps each one a heart could show More innocent than ours are now ; Yet this the sole reward they find — The ceaseless rain, the insistent wind. Still, still they lie through endless years, And never any end appears. Unmoved the vast Cathedral towers, The bell tolls out the unfailing hours, — The self-same tower they walked below, Alive, long centuries ago. 3i Poor dead ! so very still they lie, And cannot sleep for misery, And in the hushes of the rain, " O Lord, how long ? " they still complain. The great bell in the tower set Tolls hourly back, " Not yet, not yet ! " 32 SIR BRYAN DE BORNE N the stony, bleak sheep track Where hares and plover pass, And the hazel-woods draw back At the edge of the marshy grass, In a place of brier and furze And sullen, twisted thorn, And moon-white junipers Among the graves of the little hill-men Lies Sir Bryan de Borne. They slew Sir Bryan de Borne Eight hundred years ago. All in the crass tangled thorn They watched for him, crouching low. The sun shone bright on his breast In the sweet of the primrose day] As home he rode to the West — Little he recked of the little hillmen, So still, so still they lay. They slew Sir Bryan de Borne, For they aimed so well, so well ; And he fell in the cruel thorn, And they left him where he fell. Sir Bryan de Borne lay dead, And into the primrose day His charger plunged and fled, And they heard his hooves go galloping, galloping, And trembled and stole away. 33 O AN O W 7/ P in the belfry tower I've seen you A-dreaming through the tedious days, Secure in cob-webbed nooks which screen you From the bell-ringer's vulgar gaze — Where faint and timorous through the shutters Creeps in at noon the dusty light And something shadowy stirs and flutters Behind the rafters, out of sight. And I have watched your midnight fiittings, Have seen, beneath a doubtful sky By eldritch mists and late moonsettings Your ghostly form floats silent by ; Have heard, aghast, a dreadful crying Like echoes from tormented hell — Turned, shuddering, to behold you flying, On what dim quest I cannot tell. And once I saw your fierce eyes flaring, Up-bristling plumage dabbled red, With talons ravening and tearing, Crouched ghoul-wise on your piteous dead. I knew you then, a soul enchanted, Doomed still to shun our populous light, And flit through vast and goblin-haunted Waste places of the perilous night. 34 NOCTURNE OW as the fragrant night falls still and cool, The yellow moon, a little past her full, 'Touches the rising mists with silver light And makes the river valleys beautiful. Now unperceived of tired men's heavy eyes, The shy stars come to people all the skies, And like some Eastern monarch's shining scarf The Milky Way across the Heaven lies. Only a last faint glimmer far away Where saffron pales to green and green to grey Low on the bosom of the northern hills Marks the last stronghold of departing day. Now gentle sounds come rather known than heard — A green branch by the passing night-wind stirred, A watch-dog's bark from some secluded farm, The mourning of a solitary bird. thou my Sun, who once didst shine so bright, Forgive me now if in this quiet night Not all unhappy do I walk alone With bruised heart that is not broken quite. Well, well I loved my perfect noon of yore, And bitterly I wept for thee and sore; 1 hate not now this chill moon passionless Only because my Sun can rise no more. 35 And deem not thou couldst ever be forgot If now not all unhappy seems my lot, If I can bear the moon and all the stars That only come because the day is not. 36 DREAMS "V r X~$ /\ /OW in the grey of the passionless morning K^*/ X Fast dims the false, as I wake, before the true ; Dreaming at night I beheld again my loved one : In the sad dawning I lose her all anew. Sleep, thou unfaithful, Ah ! sleep, thou unkindest, Hearest thou never the prayers that I have prayed ? I that fled to thee, that called on thee for refuge, How hast thou left me, how hast thou betrayed ? Is then thy brother false, even as thou art ? Will rest come never, and ease of all my pain ? Even in death shall I dream that I behold her, See her a little, and lose her once again ? C2 37 THE SONG OF PAN oC: AST night, when the moon was down, In the ghostly aftermidnight hours When the bats tire of their wayward flying, I left the hillside where I was lying. Swiftly I passed through the empty town. I stood alone in the dark close, crying To the gargoyles up in the windy towers. Faintly, far aloft I heard How the old grey gargoyles awoke and stirred ; Through the dark I heard them replying : Who is this that troubles our sleeping ? The priest has gone to his own house ; All has been silent this long while. Only out of his fortress creeping, The anxious, silent-footed mouse Flits across the shadowy aisle. But who is this in the dark and cold Piping a sweet and troublous tune, A melody that we loved of old, To set us playing Under the yellow autumn moon, When the little feet were free for straying, Nor frozen yet to this cold, grey stone ? " I answered them, all alone, Standing under the elmtrees : " Tell, Tell me, ye who, early and late, 38 'Leaguer our foes' tall citadel : How much longer must we wait ? How fares it with the gods we hate ? Cometh the end late or soon ? " Far aloft the gargoyles stirred ; Thus I heard, With a muttering and a heavy sighing, The gargoyles through the night replying : One day follows another And we are sick of the endless days. To and fro the white priests go : Sweetly quiring They chaunt their ageless gods untiring; The candles on the altar blaze, And the end we long for still delays. Come to us, come to us, O our brother, For we are sick for the old, bright hours, For our little shrines by the forest ways, Offerings of dewy flowers And the green shades and the bird-loud places Where the lonely goatherd strays, And all the well-remembered faces." Thus in the dim star-circled towers The old, grey gargoyles made reply. Heavily I Turned again through the sleeping city, Piping another sadder song, And everywhere as I passed along The dogs awoke and howled for pity, 39 In clamorous chorus broken-hearted, Wailing the ancient days departed. For I sang how the broad land lies deserted, And out of brake and covert shady The little fawns and the nymphs are fled, And even she whom I loved of old, Artemis, the pale moon-lady, Even she, I think, is dead; So wan and old She hangs expressionless on high, Wheeling through the desolate sky. But in their chambers men awaking Heard my pipings passing by, And crossed themselves, and lay quaking, Calling upon their saints on high To shrive them from the powers of ill ; Such might have the old gods still, That men should not utterly forget. Laughing, I left the town behind, And came again to my lonely hill. Heavy darkness clouded it yet, But a little wind, A sudden stir and a coolness waking, Whispered about me, soft and shy, How far in the East the dawn was breaking And the stars pale in the morning sky. 40 CORNISH CATCHES By BERNARD MOORE Second edition ; Crown 8vo ; Decorated boards ; 2J6 net. MAIDS I've knawed a many o' Devon maids with cheeks merry an' red, They'm pleasant an' 'ansum single, an' homely an' cosy wed; But I shan't marry a Devon maid; I reckon I'd rather be dead. I've seed a many o' London maids abroad in London Town ; They'm larky an' flittery single, but marryin' calms 'em down; But I shan't marry a London maid ; I reckon I'd rather drown. For I have knawed the Cornish maids, an' like 'em best of any. So take the London an' Devon maids, they'm goin' at two a penny; An' I shan't marry nobody else, for I be tokened to Jenny. THE TIMES : We linger over them with delight. DAILY TELEGRAPH : Impeccably sincere . . . Corn- wall has had no such poet since Hawker of Morwenstove. MORNING POST : Just as good as Cornish cream to a Cornish cat . . . a thing to rejoice over. T.P.'S WEEKLY: . . . Of quite remarkable interest . . . a re a 1 poet. DAILY NEWS: "Cornish Catches" are excellent. WILLOW'S FORGE By SHEILA KAYE SMITH. Crown 8vo ; Cloth ; 2/6 net. THE LAST GOSPEL When Mass is said, The music dead, And the last lights upon the Altar-throne Drop slowly one by one into the dark, To the east Turns the Priest, And bows his knee before the sacred Ark And whispers the Last Gospel through— alone. So do I When dreams die, And love's last wretched candle-lights are seen Darkening upon the Altar of your heart, Face the east, And like the Priest Say my Last Gospel through ere I depart, And before leaving bow to What Has Been. " . . . . The drama of human yearning or loss recounted in short rimed cadences." — The Times. " Her poetry is fully equal to her prose Lovers of real, not to say remarkable poetry must hasten to secure this wonder- working book." — Dundee Advertiser. " A book of quite unusual power that is seldom relaxed. .... To say that a good half of this volume is full of the most religious poetry that has been written for a generation is to state the thing as plainly as possible. It is the religion of tenderness— in tears and smiles— but there is a rare note of virile power, heightened by that ever-so-little feminine touch. . . . Altogether a most welcome book." — Manchester Guardian. " .... In these days of slavish poetical discipleship her inde- pendence is refreshing. Her work has neither the fine-spun tenuity and refinement of the followers of the Poet-Laureate nor the wilful and calculated brutality of the school of Mr. Kipling. It reveals a mind intensely moved by the tragedy and irony of human life, but yet not so pre-occupied with the serious side of things as to miss the humour and the colour. ... A volume which is vibrant with a rare emotional beauty." — Literary World. APES AND PEACOCKS By NORMAN BOOTHROYD Extra Cr. 8vo; Decorated Boards ; Illustrated ; 2\6 net. DELIRIUM I saw a vast procession on the frieze — The mighty concourse of a moving throng Winding its way insistently along The picture-mould — across the paper leas ; Now, there were ivory-coloured Japanese Who beat with cherry sticks a brazen gong ; Now, chanting priests, to whose ecstatic song Marched gaudy peacocks and performing fleas. And each new scene surpassed the one before; And some were followed by amazing Goths Who lead in leash unwieldy behemoths That dragged dire engines of eternal war ; And there were wondrous changing colour- schemes In this fantastic pageantry of dreams. " One of the most original, curious, odd and promising first books of verse that has come our way for several months. "—YORKSHIRE POST. " If Lord Dunsany had written verse, he would have done something like Mr. Boothroyd. . . . All are good. " — THE Bookman. A CHARMING NEW ANTHOLOGY LITTLE POEMS Selected and arranged (with an Introduction) by E. CROSBY-HEATH. Decorated Boards, 1 1- net. All poetry lovers should ask their booksellers for this dainty volume— the first of the " Malory Treasuries." Mrs. MEYNELL, to whom the book is dedicated, writes to the Editor : " It is a little volume that ought to go far, in pockets, on many walks and journeys. I enjoy your notes. It was a good idea to insert them with the text." KATHARINE TYNAN says: "I like the foreword, and the little comments that string the poems together. It is a fas- cinating little book, and I hope it is only a prelude. I hope you will do more of these darling books, and that the success of this will encourage your publisher." Miss HARRIET JAY (Robert Buchanan's executrix) writes: "A charming little volume. I think that poems presented this way are much more likely to be read and appreciated. Most beautiful gems are completely lost in overcrowded volumes. It has been quite a treat to me to sit and read this one of yours, which is made so much more inte- resting by the inclusion of your notes and first words." "The 'Little Poems' are a specialized type of short lyric of which simplicity is the keynote. The poems selected for this exquisite collection — and each poem is a gem — have been chosen because they are ' near to everyday life ' and as strength- ening our interest in human nature, by 'vivid delineation of its tenderest feelings.' Poems that, like so much Elizabethan lyrical verse, are mere ' musical ringing of changes ' upon roses and violets, darts and flames, snowy bosoms and starry eyes, that have no personality and that have ' fatal fondness for the didactic' are ruthlessly ruled out. The result is a choice and, indeed, unique little work. Owing to the rigid censorship exercised, the number of lyrics admitted are few, but these few represent a great range and much diversity in tone and colour and feeling, though all have in common the virtues of intense beauty and concentrated power. The selection shows rare skill and judgment, and if some well-known lyrics have been excluded which are worthy of a place we must, remembering the limits that have to be observed by a little book, feel grate- ful that the work contains so much that is genuinely fine, and that it never falls below the very highest quality of excellence." Aberdeen Free Press. Jephthah's Daughter By ANNA BUNSTON, author of "Mingled Wine," " The Porch of Paradise, " &c. Cloth, crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. net THE SONG OF MAHLAH O purple wooded Gilead, O country loved of God, O place of wells and waters, The land our fathers trod. Upon thy mountain pastures, The dappled goats may go, The kine and ewes deep-uddered Feed where the fountains flow. Thy leaping, laughing waters, Thy little singing rills, Flow down where Jordan gathers Her children from the hills. Thou hast all precious unguents Of terebinth and rue, For thee the bruised balsam Drops down her healing dew. And strong on hills of Gilead Still stand the oaks of God — But other footsteps follow Where once our fathers trod. " Mrs. Bunston has succeeded where so many fine poets have failed. She has written a tragedy in blank verse, in which the characterization is as delicately articulated as in a realistic modern comedy. She has achieved the necessary synthesis of humanity and poetic dignity. Her play, therefore, is good to read and should be admirable on the stage." — Mr. Francis Bick- ley in the Christmas "Bookman." THE POETRY REVIEW: Edited by Stephen Phillips: Bi-Monthly during 1915, is. net: A complete poetic drama in each issue. LOVE'S SONG FROM "THE RANSOM" (THE COMPLETE POETIC DRAMA PUBLISHED IN THE MARCH, I915, " POETRY REVIEW ") My arms could shepherd all your love To peace within my fold, No pilgrim heart need ever move Through my great fence of gold. With my great calling far and near The earth for ever fills, My voice is clear as it was clear Over the ancient hills. How should I spend my unheeded speech Whose riches pile so high, No pilgrim but my hoard can reach, Who goes so empty by. Oh, I could lift you in my arms, And heal each deepening woe, No shivering soul but I could warm, If man would have it so . . . — Dollie Radford. "Under Mr. Stephen Phillips' editorship the Poetry Review has become a magazine of international eminence." — Literary Digest. " It contains good poetry and sound criticism. It is a dignified publication, with no insincerity about it. It is perhaps the best critical journal of the kind, for it stimulates just that attention to the laws of literature which is so lacking in others." — Mr. Alfred Noyes in an interview. "The always welcome Poetry Review is now enlarged to 112 pages. The Poetry Review and the Poetry Society are doing very much for contemporary verse, and deserve the support of all interested in the future of poetry in Britain." — Dundee Advet User. ! .* JAN 5 2000 DUE 2 VWCS ROlfa DATE RECGIVPf HEC '°V*L fEBti? THE LIBRARY 4fiP£BRSITr OF CALlFOKftl* U96U -17 1915 uc SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 370 438 4