The treatment of familiar figures in an uncommon way is frequent in Michael Field's poetry. There is a quaintness which is usually pleasing, but sometimes tends to extravagance, and this is particularly noticeable as a defect in the tragedies. It is felt also in some of the religious poems that remind one of the naïveté of the Italian poet-monks of the trecento. Yet, this faculty of seeing things in novel aspects, though it may find expression in somewhat too unconventional a manner now and then, is, nevertheless, a special gift in a poet, and to it, in the present instance, we owe such striking expressions as "Eternal Passer-by" addressed to the wind, and the Tennysonian figure in an extract we have quoted of the sea, that

Stirs the silver flux of reeds and willows.

66

The trueness of the poet's vision is well seen in a light work named "Sight and Song," that has been spoken of as most Keats-like." It is a translation into poetry of the masterpieces of art. Joined to a keen perception of beauty are faithful power of delineation and a delicate sense of colour. Here is how "La Gioconda" is described. We give it, not because it is best, but because the picture being familiar to the reader, the accuracy and charm of the description can be well appreciated :

Historic, side-long, implicating eyes;

A smile of velvet's lustre on the cheek;
Calm lips the smile leads upward; hand that lies
Glowing and soft, the patience in its rest
Of cruelty that waits and doth not seek
For prey; a dusky forehead and a breast
Where twilight touches ripeness amorously;
Behind her, crystal rocks, a sea and skies
Of evanescent blue on cloud and creek;
Landscape that shines suppression of its zest
For those vicissitudes by which men die.

More spiritual is the insight displayed in these lines from the description of Giorgione's "Shepherd Boy" at Hampton Court :

Evenings of sober, azure days

Of heat have influenced the lone boy

To dream with never a haunting thought,

To be too calm tor gladness,

And in the hill-groves to have caught
Hints of internal summer sadness.

The religious poetry written after the authors' conversion is worthy of much greater recognition than it has received. Like

MICHAEL FIELD

the rest of their work, it is not meant for the uncultured mind, and generally requires thoughtful reading. But such perusal is well repaid. It is the tender, sincere song of a Browning-like mind meditating deeply on religious subjects, and of a pious Catholic heart dwelling with affection in the recesses of divine love. The Blessed Eucharist is the poets' favourite theme, and beautiful is the fruit of their contemplations. Beautiful, too, are their tender thoughts on the Blessed Virgin.

The Poems of Adoration* contain a wealth of elevated sentiments and the volume ranks high in the devotional poetry of our day. The finest thing it contains is the "Descent from the Cross," of which we quote the first and last stanzas:

Come down from the Cross, my soul, and save thyself! come down!
Thou wilt be free as wind. None meeting thee will know
How thou were hanging stark, my soul, outside the town

Thou wilt fare to and fro;

Thy feet in grass will smell of faithful thyme; thy head.
Think of the thorns, my soul, how thou wilt cast them off,
With shudder at the bleeding clench they hold !
But on their wounds thou wilt a balsam spread,

And over that a verduous circle rolled

With gathered violets, sweet bright violets, sweet
As incense of the thyme on thy free feet;

A wreath thou wilt not give away, nor wilt thou doff.

Come down from the Cross, my soul, and save thyself!
Art thou not crucified with God, who is thy breath?
Wilt thou not hang as He while mockers laugh and stare?

Wilt thou not die His death?

Beware!

Wilt thou not stay as He with nails and thorns and thirst?
Wilt thou not choose to conquer faith in His lone style?
Wilt thou not be with Him and hold thee still?

Voices have cried to Him, Come down.

Accursed

And vain those voices, striving to beguile !
How heedless, solemn-grey in powerful man,
Christ droops among the echoes as they pass!
O soul, remain with Him, with Him thy doom fulfil.

In all of Michael Field's poetry there is present that ethereal quality which distinguishes what is true poetry from what is not. The subjects treated are most varied, but the underlying principles animating it are always the same. There is the noble sentiment and the living sympathy that speaks from soul to soul, infusing into impassioned verse "the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge."

There are two books which we should like to see published

*Many of the poems in this volume appeared originally in the IRISH MONTHLY during the years 1908 to 1911.-ED. I. M.

in the near future: one, a selection of Michael Field's lyrical poems, grouped according to subject; and the other, a reprint in one volume of the best of the tragedies. There is much in the lyrical poetry that should be thus preserved. We are not speaking of a separation of wheat from chaff, for there is no chaff; but we think that in this form the beauty of the finest of the poems could not but be generally appreciated and meet with due recognition. As for the tragedies, we cannot believe that they will quickly die. On the contrary, we look forward to the day when "Canute the Great" and "Fair Rosamund " will be widely known, and will receive honour in the theatre where now little that is their equal is being produced. This is an age that plumes itself on its critical ability, and on its recognition of genius wherever it may appear. It is a claim not wholly substantiated by facts, and the treatment meted out to Michael Field in latter years is a clear example. If the chief tragedies were thus collected and published again, we think it would turn the tide.

If a reaction comes, as we expect it will, in favour of this poetry, it will be regrettable that Miss Cooper did not live to see it, and feel some consolation from its advent. However, from what we know of her character, through the words of her friends and through the revelations of her writings, we realise that this was not necessary to her happiness. When we are told of the sweet charm of her conversation and the nobility of her nature, heightened rather than embittered by the sufferings of her last years, we recognise the singer of resignation and of hope, of strong courage and affectionate reverence, who could look on death with the calm peace of a true philosopher and on the crucifix with the faith of a fervent Catholic. Her gentle nature supported by the fortitude of her strong soul made, we are told, visits to her sick-room a delight. This spirit remains in her It is poetry that elevates while it charms, and delights the feeling heart as much as the cultured mind, breathing, as it does, the loftiest conception of human life and destiny. This is the finest form of poetry, and those who bemoan the low moral standard of much modern literature, and bewail the fact that it is so hard to find genuine poetic art coupled with Christian sentiment, would do well to turn to these works of Michael Field, where they will find one of the happiest unions in our day of moralist and poet.

verse.

T. F. R.

THE PRESENTATION

THOSE mysteries I count the best
Where the young child is found
Laid lovely in thy arms to rest,
Or held of thee, and crowned.
And first of the Nativity

I love the joyous guise;
And all the music sung to thee
Is of thy Infant's cries.
The Aves tremble on our lips,
The Aves are unsaid,

For see, the gentle Mother slips
Her Jesus in His bed.

And we with her must bend to Him,
And on our knees must sink,-
That bed of His the angels rim,
As cattle come to drink.

Thy Little One is still in arms
When Simeon stands by,

And saddeneth thee with cruel charms,
And blesseth tearfully.

Thy Lamb is to the slaughter come

How softly He consents!

Now must thou home with Him, and hum

And ponder God's intents.

YOUTH

As a beautiful missal is youth;

It is full of a truth

Antique and sure its scent

As ambergris is permanent.

It lifteth the aloe-flower,
One sole high bloom:

It hath never bloomed before;

No man hath beheld its tomb.

MICHAEL FIELD.

MICHAEL FIELD.

These two characteristic poems (found among the papers of Father Matthew Russell, S. J.) must be some of the last contributions sent by 'Michael Field" to the IRISH MONTHLY.-ED. I. M.

SOME NEW BOOKS

1. Lyrical Poems. By Thomas MacDonagh. Dublin: the Irish Review. (Price 6s. net.)

This handsome volume contains not only Mr. MacDonagh's poems of recent composition, but also all the poems he wishes to preserve from his three early volumes, Through the Ivory Gate, April and May, and The Golden Joy; it gives, consequently, a fairly complete idea of his achievements hitherto in the art of poetry. The place of honour in the collection goes to a suite of poems grouped under the title, "The Book of Images." There are, besides, many shorter lyrics, and some translations, mostly from the Irish. The greater number of the shorter lyrics are from his early poems, and we quite agree with Mr. MacDonagh's opinion that they are worth preserving. The reader will find poems here of real merit and charm, inspired by a fresh and refined fancy, and by sincere if scarcely intense feeling. One of the sweetest is the two-verse lyric, "I heard a Music Sweet To-day"; another excellently conceived and expressed is "Of a Poet Patriot." Perhaps the best example of Mr. MacDonagh's muse among the separate lyrics is one of more recent composition, Wishes for my Son "-there are stanzas in it not only well worth reading, but worth storing in the memory. It gains by its length, for his poems are commonly composed in a spirit of meditative calm-his poetic fire burns with a glow rather than leaps into flame, and so the best effects are to be expected in his longer poems. We are all the more disappointed when, turning to the suite of poems of ampler length, we find our pleasure in reading them sadly marred by their obscurity. No doubt the thoughts here are of a more abstract character, but we have found very abstract thoughts expressed clearly by writers who had the patience to go through the mental labour which deep or elusive thoughts require before a clear vision is reached. There are, however, passages, and even poems among them, with little or no obscurity, and in such passages the poet is seen at his best, moved by deeper feeling and rising to a higher plane of thought and imagination. In passing we may note and dissent from the view of humility stated in the poem "Grange House Lodge," "Know you're humble and austere Be sincere and you'll be proud." We should say humility does not require