May," portray for us the gladsome England of Christ rather than the stern England of Odin.

We are tempted to quote one instance illustrating De Vere's fidelity to his venerable guide in the details of history. We choose the chronicle version of King Ethelbert's answer to Augustine at the close of the memorable meeting on the shores of Thanet Island. Fair, indeed," said the King, are the words and promises that you bring, but because they are new and uncertain I cannot straightway give my assent to them, nor abandon those (Odin and the rest) which I and the English have so long observed."

Thus De Vere interprets :

Stranger and friend,

Thou bear'st good tidings! That thou camest thus far
To fool us, knave and witling may believe :

I walk not with their sort; yet, guest revered,

Kings are not as the common race of men :

Counsel they take, lest honour heaped on one
Dishonour others.

The very plainness of the example will serve to bring out the exactness of the poet's following, at least where the historical narrative is in question.

Still another cause made the Legends of Bede a subject wellfitted to De Vere's spirit of poesy. Joyousness is his characteristic note-the joyousness of simple things, of May fields, of May woods, the joyous brightness of early Summer days. From "Ethelbert and Augustine" to "Bede's Last May," this harmony of pure joy sounds through the poems, even when the theme is grave and its setting solemn. Surely this fact bears. great testimony to De Vere's complete success in his task, especially when we realise the vastness of his scheme, for "the poem was meant to illustrate the chief types, pagan and Christian, of society, from the cowherd to the minstrel, the warrior, the king, and the prophet, and among them the graver figures of the Roman missionaries and the Saxon saints."

It is not our purpose to prove that De Vere attained his aim in this work of portrayal. We may, however, dwell upon one legend as a fair type of the rest. This shall be the exquisite story of "Cadmon the Cowherd, the first English Poet." As we read the very opening lines the words take shape and weave themselves into pictures vivid and actual. The sinking sun reddening the bay, the "ruddy herds . . . along the marge, clear-imaged," and "Hilda's . . Hilda's . . . crown on Whitby's holy crest," what are they all but a setting for the pale, stately

herdsman, slightly bent by age, "meek of soul, unlettered, yet heart-wise."

Slow were his eyes, and slow his speech, and slow
His musing step; and slow his hand to wrath;
A massive hand, but soft, that many a time
Had succoured man and woman, child and beast,
And yet could fiercely grasp the sword.

Then King Oswy's cavalcade, the banqueting and the rivalry of song in Hilda's praise, all lead most naturally and skilfully to the central theme-the transformation of Cædmon the unlettered Cowherd into Cadmon the Monk and Father of English Song. Yet throughout the "meek of soul . . . heart-wise " man remains the same. Clearly the poet's ideal poet. Such a one is not affrighted at the vision of the Man Divine, who bids him sing.

My Lord, I cannot sing. . . . Once, in youth,

I willed to sing the bright face of a maid,
And failed, and once a gold-faced harvest-field,
And failed, and once the flame-eyed face of war,
And failed again.

There is no trembling either in the aged, massive hands, and no faltering in the slow, calm voice, when he stands, in cowherd attire, before crowned King and mitred Bishop, before "Hilda's sisterhood . . white-veiled," and the long lines of dark-stoled monks, summoned thither by the holy abbess :

Then Cædmon's large, soft hands

Opening and closing worked; for wont were they,
In musings when he stood, to clasp his goad,
And plant its point far from him, thereupon
Propping his stalwart weight.

But for goad he grasps St. Finian's crozier-staff and, withdrawing it from hands episcopal, leans thereon,

while passed a smile

From chief to chief to see earth's meekest man
The spiritual sceptre claim of Lindisfarne.

And thus to the end, though a cloistered cowherd henceforth at Hilda's will, he sings God's praises meek of soul . . . yet heart-wise." Often even a child's mere bidding suffices to set free the divine gift, still

If God denied it, after musings deep,

He answered, "I am of the kine and dumb.".

Then, his last song sung, with Christ's blessed Body to be his strength and the lowly prayer for forgiveness on his lips, Cadmon laid him down

With those kine-tending and harp-mastering hands
Crossed on his breast, and slept.

"

Such is the legend we take as a type of the whole series of interwoven legends. In scarcely a single line throughout does De Vere strike a note not in perfect harmony with his theme. It is true his blank verse has not the rich smoothness of the verse of Tennyson's Idylls, but a certain rugged simplicity is more in accord with De Vere's purpose. Francis Thompson, in the obituary notice he wrote of Aubrey de Vere in the Academy, characterised his "general manner as somewhat coldly grave." The poet of The Hound of Heaven and Orient Ode also found a lack of "pathos or subtle suggestion." We certainly feel the truth of this criticism when applied to many of De Vere's odes and lesser poems, with the possible exception of the sonnets. However, while admitting the charge of gravity, we demur at the accusation of coldness or want of sympathy in his treatment of Bede's Legends. It may, indeed, be for some that there are too many "parables in all things' and too much calm reserve. We must take our poet as we find him, mindful also that legends are not ballads, and that legends of saints are not meant precisely to thrill our souls, but to uplift and to encourage by presenting the vision of a calm and winning sanctity. In some respect also the Legends of the Saxon Saints differ greatly from the Legends of St. Patrick. De Vere had formed his own opinion of the contrasting qualities of the Irish and Anglo-Saxon characters. And it was with this estimate of the respective differences of the races, and consequently of the Saints, before his mind that he conceived his types, and strove to breathe into them the breath of life. It is an interesting literary experiment, albeit a somewhat whimsical one, to alternate the reading of the Saxon Legends with the Idylls, or with the Irish Legends. We may " discover " Aubrey de Vere in the process.

We must conclude this unsatisfactory account by the obvious reflection that appreciation of De Vere's poetry seems necessarily subjective. After all is said, he will still occupy, in the opinion of many, a lonely shrine, very similar in loneliness

*Recollections of Aubrey de Vere, pp. 356, 368.

to the shrines of Thompson and Patmore, before their very greatness showed the absurdity of the thing, a shrine also beneath which is written "the poet of a small Catholic clique." Still let us end with hopeful prophecy, borrowing words spoken by a dead poet of our greatest living poet: "The spiritual voice (of Mary's troubadour and the Minstrel of Mary's saints) will become audible when the high noises of to-day have followed the feet that made them."

W. P. S.

THE WRECKED TEMPLE

BEHOLD this wreck! A temple fair
Whilom it stood, and incensed pray'r
Was wafted thence, an odour sweet,
Aloft to God's all-beauteous seat;
Its altar was a sacred shrine

Where kindled Love and Truth divine;
And countless angels thronged this spot
Which now in ruin lies forgot :

No vestige bides to show that here
Was God, His grace, His love, His fear!

Sad desolation holds full sway
Within th' abandoned walls to-day;
Its altar lights to ash have burned;
Its finest gold to lead is turned ;
Its jasper, topaz, onyx, beryl,
Its sapphire, chrysolite and pearl,
Are strewn abroad on ev'ry street
And trod beneath the scoffer's feet:
No vestige bides to show that here

Was God, His grace, His love, His fear!

The beauty of God's house is flown,
Its tabernacle overthrown ;

The serpent rears a hissing brood

Where erst there stood the holy Rood;

His slime begrimes the walls around.
And foully trickles to the ground;
Astonished angels sad deplore
This temple loved of God before:
No vestige bides to show that here
Was God, His grace, His love, His fear!

O Christian, see this temple where
Erstwhile was heard the hum of pray'r,
Dismantled, desecrated, lone,

All tott'ring, mould'ring stone by stone,
With serpent brood within the shrine
Where once there glowed God's lamp divine.

*

O cause for tears! O cause for dole!

The sin-polluted human soul

No vestige left to show that here

Was God, His grace, His love, His fear!

JAMES J. O'BRIEN, S.J.

PRIESTS AND POETS: A SKETCH

I

ATHER EDWARD QUINN, the Parish Priest of Glenisland—and a feeble old priest he was-was walking up

and down the little gravelled walk in front of his hall door. It was September; and the morning sun, in all the luxuriance of late Summer beauty, flung its genial rays around him; still his heart was filled with sadness and sorrow, for this was to be a day of defeat. For twenty-seven years, unaided and alone, he had ruled the little kingdom of Glenisland; and all said he ruled it well. But the day had come-the day of weakness and unfitness-and his Bishop was sending him a young priest.

Now and again the faltering step would cease, and he would run his fingers through the silvery curls and stand gazing down along the lough road: then when there was no sound to be heard, he was off again; and the same halt and the same anxious look down the road were repeated time after time. At length