In the same poem of Etain we may note the free use of description and the rich colour and profuse detail which mark romantic work of this kind. The story of Etain has a mythological a.s.sociation. She was the beloved wife of Mider, one of the ancient G.o.ds; but she seems to have been driven out of the hierarchy and to have become incarnate in the form of a young girl of great beauty. King Eochaidh, not knowing of her divine origin, wooed her and made her queen. But Mider followed her to earth and won her back from her human lover. There is an exquisite stanza in which the King sends to seek for his bride, and tells how they will find her--

"She shall be found in some most quiet place Where Beauty sits all day beside her knee And looks with happy envy on her face; Where Virtue blushes, her own guilt to see, And Grace learns new, sweet meanings from her grace; Where all that ever was or will be wise Pales at the burning wisdom of her eyes."

News is brought to the King that Etain is found, and he goes to the remote and lonely place that his messengers have told him of. He comes upon her unaware--

There by the sea, Etain his destined bride Sat unabashed, unwitting of the sight Of him who gazed upon her gleaming side, Fair as the snowfall of a single night; Her arms like foam upon the flowing tide; Her curd-white limbs in all their beauty bare, Straight as the rule of Dagda's carpenter.

There is, too, in this poetry of Mr Cousins, a very tender feeling for Nature. Perhaps it does not quite accord with the spirit of the wild time out of which the stories came; but that opens up a larger question into which we are not bound to enter. For if we are going to quarrel with the treatment of epic material in any but the vigorous, 'primitive'

manner, we shall make ourselves the poorer by rejecting much beautiful poetry. We may even find ourselves robbed of Virgilian sweetness. But most of us will be wise enough to take good things wherever we find them; and may, therefore, rejoice in stanzas like these, which describe the stirring of wild creatures at dawn:

Somewhere the snipe now taps his tiny drum; The moth goes fluttering upward from the heath; And where no lightest foot unmarked may come, The rabbit, tiptoe, plies his shiny teeth On luscious herbage; and with strident hum The yellow bees, bl.u.s.tering from flower to flower, Scatter from dew-filled cups a sparkling shower.

The meadowsweet shakes out its feathery ma.s.s; And rumorous winds, that stir the silent eaves, Bearing abroad faint perfumes as they pa.s.s, Thrill with some wondrous tale the fluttering leaves, And whisper secretly along the gra.s.s Where gossamers, for day's triumphal march, Hang out from blade to blade their diamond arch.

There is, however, a very different manner in which these early legends are being treated by some of the Irish poets. One may call it 'Celtic,'

in the hope of conveying some impression of it in a single word. But if you would get nearer than that, you may take one or two fragments from Mr Yeats' _The Celtic Twilight_--such as "the voice of Celtic sadness and of Celtic longing for infinite things ... the vast and vague extravagance that lies at the bottom of the Celtic heart." And to phrases like that, which adumbrate the spirit of the work, you must add a style which is allusive, mystic, and symbolical: in fact, a mode of expression rather like Mr Yeats' own early poetry. But the crux of the matter lies there. For the production of really good work of this kind demands just the equipment which Mr Yeats happens to possess: the right temperament and the right degree (a high one) of poetic craftsmanship.

It is a rare combination--unique, of course, in so far as the element of individuality enters. And attempts which have been made to gain the same effects with a different natural endowment have failed in proportion as temperament was unsuited or 'the capacity for taking pains' was less. Hence 'Celtic' poetry, in the specific sense, has fallen into some disfavour. Yet when mood and material and craft 'have met and kissed each other,' it is clear that authentic beauty is created; and that of a kind which cannot be made in any other way. Thus we might choose, from the romantic work of Miss Eva Gore Booth, pa.s.sages where all the desirable qualities seem to meet. There is, for instance, the poem which prefaces her _Triumph of Maeve_, from which I take the last two stanzas. Here is finely caught that unrest of soul which we have been taught to believe essentially Celtic; though it probably haunts every imaginative mind, of whatever race.

There is no rest for the soul that has seen the wild eyes of Maeve; No rest for the heart once caught in the net of her yellow hair-- No quiet for the fallen wind, no peace for the broken wave; Rising and falling, falling and rising with soft sounds everywhere, There is no rest for the soul that has seen the wild eyes of Maeve.

I have seen Maeve of the Battles wandering over the hill And I know that the deed that is in my heart is her deed; And my soul is blown about by the wild winds of her will, For always the living must follow whither the dead would lead-- I have seen Maeve of the Battles wandering over the hill.

From the same romance we may select a speech by Fionavar, Queen Maeve's beautiful young daughter. The sense of the supernatural enters here, for the occasion is Samhain, the pagan All Souls' Eve. It is a night when G.o.ds and fairies are abroad, and Fionavar has seen things strange and awesome:

As I came down the valley after dark, The little golden dagger at my breast Flashed into fire lit by a sudden spark; I saw the lights flame on the haunted hill, My soul was blown about by a strange wind.

Though the green fir trees rose up stark and still Against the sky, yet in my haunted mind They bent and swayed before a magic storm: A wave of darkness thundered through the sky, And drowned the world....

In _Nera's Song_, again, as in the whole romance, we find the element of dreams which is supposed to be an indubitable sign of the Celtic temperament. Nera, who is the Queen's bard, has just returned after an absence of one whole year in the Land of Faery; and though it is autumn, his arms are full of primroses, the fairies' magical flower:

I bring you all my dreams, O golden Maeve, There are no dreams in all the world like these The dreams of Spring, the golden fronds that wave In faery land beneath dark forest-trees,-- I bring you all my dreams.

I bring you all my dreams, Fionavar, From that dim land where every dream is sweet, I have brought you a little shining star, I strew my primroses beneath your feet, I bring you all my dreams.

There is yet another style in which the heroic tales are occasionally treated, and it is directly contrasted with either of those which we have just considered. Examples of it may be found in Miss Alice Milligan's book of _Hero Lays_, where it will be seen that the poet's chief concern is with the story itself, rather than with the manner of telling. In such a piece as "Brian of Banba," for instance, the action is clear and moves rapidly. There is a sense of morning air and light in the poem which is very refreshing after the atmosphere of golden afternoon, or evening twilight, in which we have been wandering. It comes partly from the blithe swing of the rhythm: partly from the vigour and clear strength of diction. And a true dramatic sense imparts the life and movement of quickly changing emotion.

Banba is one of the many beautiful old names for Ireland; and Brian was perhaps her greatest king. He lived about the time of our English Alfred and, like him, Brian fought continually against the invading Dane. He, too, when a young man, lived for a long time the life of an outlaw--outcast even from his own clan because he would not suffer the Danish yoke. The poem relates an incident of Brian's appearance at the palace of his brother, King Mahon, after a long absence. He strides into the gay a.s.sembly alone, his body worn thin by privation and his garments ragged.

"Brian, my brother," said the King, in a tone of scornful wonder, "Why dost thou come in beggar-guise our palace portals under?

Where hast thou wandered since yester year, on what venture of love hast thou tarried?

Tell us the count of thy prey of deer, and what cattleherds thou hast harried."

"I have hunted no deer since yester year, I have harried no neighbour's cattle, I have wooed no love, I have joined no game, save the kingly game of battle; The Danes were my prey by night and day, in their forts of hill and hollow, And I come from the desert-lands alone, since none are alive to follow.

Some were slain on the plundered plain, and some in the midnight marching; Some were lost in the winter floods, and some by the fever parching; Some have perished by wounds of spears, and some by the shafts of bowmen; And some by hunger and some by thirst, and all are dead; but they slaughtered first Their tenfold more of their foemen."

The King impulsively offers him gifts for a reward, but Brian declines them:

"I want no cattle from out your herds, no share of your shining treasure; But grant me now"--and he turned to look on the listening warriors'

faces-- "A hundred more of the clan Dal Cas, to follow me over plain and pa.s.s: To die, as fitteth the brave Dal Cas, at war with the Outland races."

It must not be supposed, however, that these poets are working solely upon romantic themes, more or less in the epic manner. On the contrary, direct treatment of the saga is declining, even with the poets who, like those we have named, were formerly preoccupied with it. Mr Cousins'

volume of 1915 is sharply symptomatic of the change. Subjects of more social and more immediate interest are engaging attention, and legendary material is pa.s.sing into a phase of allusion and symbol. Concurrently, there is a development of the pure lyric which gives great promise, being sound and sweet and vigorous. It has all the signs of vitality, drawing its inspiration directly from life, keeping close to the earth, as it were, and often dealing with the large and simple things of existence.

One may not make too precise a claim here for affiliation with the literary revival; but observing the movement broadly, it would appear that this is its more popular manifestation, springing out of the devotion to the old language of the country, its folklore and the life of its people. That current of the stream would touch actual existence much more closely than aesthetic or academic study; and while one might regard Lady Gregory and Mr Yeats as the pioneers of the movement on the specifically literary side, on the other hand there are Dr Hyde, A. E., and others, whose influence must have counted largely in these new lyrics of life.

There are about half a dozen poets who are making these sweet, fresh songs. They have not published very much, but that follows from the nature of the medium in which they are working. Lyrical rapture is brief, and the form of its expression correspondingly small. Very seldom can it be sustained so long and so keenly as, for example, in Mr Stephens' "Prelude and a Song," for the wise poet accepts the natural limits of inspiration and technique. But this little group does not, of course, include all the Irish lyrists. The poets whom we may describe as literary--who have, at any rate, the more obvious connexion with the revival--have made beautiful lyrics too. But they are sharply contrasted in subject or style, or both, with those others. Thus we may take a "Spring Rondel" by Mr Cousins, which is supposed to be sung by a starling:

I clink my castanet, And beat my little drum; For spring at last has come, And on my parapet Of chestnut, gummy-wet, Where bees begin to hum, I clink my castanet, And beat my little drum.

"Spring goes," you say, "suns set."

So be it! Why be glum?

Enough, the spring has come; And without fear or fret I clink my castanet, And beat my little drum.

The lyrical virtues of that need no emphasis: the quick, true reflection of a mood: the lightness of touch and grace of expression. It is, however, mainly by qualities of form that one is delighted here--the art's the thing. To make a rondel at all seems an achievement; and to make it so daintily, with playful fancy and feeling caught to the nicest shade, almost compels wonder. But that is characteristic of the kind of verse of which I am speaking, another aspect of which may be seen in a captivating fragment which has been translated by this poet from the Irish of some period before the tenth century. It is called "The Student"; and to find the like of it, with its combined love of nature and of learning, one must seek a certain 'Clerk of Oxenford' and endow him with the spirit of his own springtime poet--

High on my hedge of bush and tree A blackbird sings his song to me, And far above my lined book I hear the voice of wren and rook.

From the bush-top, in garb of grey, The cuckoo calls the hours of day.

Right well do I--G.o.d send me good!-- Set down my thoughts within the wood.

It is not often that these poets are occupied with "Modern Movements,"

wherein they differ from their English contemporaries. For that reason, it is the more significant that one public question has moved them deeply. Thus we find Miss Mitch.e.l.l writing of womanhood:

Oh, what to us your little slights and scorns, You who dethrone us with a careless breath.

G.o.d made us awful queens of birth and death, And set upon our brows His crown of thorns.

And Miss Gore-Booth, thinking of the sheltered ignorance of many women who oppose the suffrage for their s.e.x, makes a little parable:

The princess in her world-old tower pined A prisoner, brazen-caged, without a gleam Of sunlight, or a windowful of wind; She lived but in a long lamp-lighted dream.

They brought her forth at last when she was old; The sunlight on her blanched hair was shed Too late to turn its silver into gold.

"Ah, shield me from this brazen glare!" she said.

Mr Cousins, too, has several n.o.ble sonnets on the theme, from which we may select part of the one called "To the Suffragettes":

Who sets her shoulder to the Cross of Christ, Lo! she shall wear sharp scorn upon her brow; And she whose hand is put to Freedom's plough May not with sleek Expediency make tryst:

O fateful heralds, charged with Time's decree, Whose feet with doom have compa.s.sed Error's wall; Whose lips have blown the trump of Destiny Till ancient thrones are shaking toward their fall; Shout! for the Lord hath given to you the free New age that comes with great new hope to all.

The main point of contrast, in turning to the more 'popular' lyrics, is their simplicity. It is a difference of manner as well as of material.

You will not find in this verse either an elaborate metrical form, or the treatment of questions such as that which we have just noted. Those things belong to a more complex condition, both of life and of letters, than that which is reflected here. And if such a contrast always implied separation in time, we could believe ourselves to be in a different epoch--a younger and more ingenuous age. But that, of course, by no means follows. Even if we regard it as figured by a kind of separation in s.p.a.ce, with town and university on the one hand and the broad land and toiling people on the other, it is still too arbitrary and, moreover, it is incomplete. No room is found for the wanderers in neutral territory.

The contrast is rather like that between the newer English poetry and the old. It is indicative of a current of thought which is running throughout Europe, and which may be observed in England, stimulating the more vital work of contemporary poets. That, crudely stated, is a perception of the value of life--of the whole of life, sense and spirit, heart and brain and soul. As the poet is seized by it, he is carried into a larger and more vivid world, one of manifold significance and beauty which he had never before perceived. He grasps eagerly at _all_ the stuff of existence, persistently seeks his inspiration in life instead of in literature, and having rejected the artifice of conventional terminology, begins to create a new kind of poetry.

Now that undercurrent is not visible in a superficial glance at this poetry. Even native critics seem to have missed it, or tend to refer it to anything rather than to the whole movement of the national mind towards reality. But that is not surprising, indeed. For the limpidity of these lyrics is quite untroubled; they are innocent of ulterior purpose, and free from the least chill of philosophical questioning into origins or ends. The impulse out of which they came is instinctive: their very art, at least in the selection of themes, is spontaneous. An excellent example is the whole volume by Mr Joseph Campbell called _The Mountainy Singer_. He has another, _Irishry_, but although that is very interesting in its studies of Irish life, it is not so good as poetry, nor is it so apt to our present purpose, because a tinge of self-consciousness has crept into it. Let us take, however, the piece which gives its name to the first of these two books:

I am the mountainy singer-- The voice of the peasant's dream, The cry of the wind on the wooded hill, The leap of the fish in the stream.

Quiet and love I sing-- The carn on the mountain crest, The cailin in her lover's arms, The child at its mother's breast.