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Read books online » Fiction » Writings in the United Amateur, 1915-1922 by H. P. Lovecraft (good books to read .txt) 📖

Book online «Writings in the United Amateur, 1915-1922 by H. P. Lovecraft (good books to read .txt) 📖». Author H. P. Lovecraft



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bit of Crowleian sentimentality which requires revision and condensation. There is not enough thought to last out three stanzas of eight lines each. Technically we must needs shudder at the apparent incurable use of "m-n" assonance. "Own" and "known" are brazenly and repeatedly flaunted with "roam" and "home" in attempted rhyme. But the crowning splendour of impossible assonance is attained in the "Worlds-girls" atrocity. Mr. Crowley needs a long session with the late Mr. Walker's well-known Rhyming Dictionary! Metrically, Mr. Crowley is showing a decided improvement of late. The only censurable points in the measure of this piece are the redundant syllables in lines 1 and 3, which might in each case be obviated by the substitution of "I've" for "I have", and the change of form in the first half of the concluding stanza. Of the general phraseology and imagery we may only remark that Mr. Crowley has much to forget, as well as to learn, before he can compete with Mr. Kleiner or other high-grade amatory poets in the United. Such expressions as "my guiding star", "my own dear darling Kate", or "she's the sweetest girl that e'er on earth did roam", tell the whole sad story to the critical eye and ear. If Mr. Crowley would religiously eschew the popular songs and magazine "poetry" of the day, and give over all his time to a perusal of the recognized classics of English verse, the result would immediately be reflected in his own compositions. As yet, he claims to be independent of scholarly tradition, but we must remind him of the Latin epigram of Mr. Owen, which Mr. Cowper thus translated under the title of "Retaliation":
"The works of ancient bards divine,
Aulus, thou scorn'st to read;
And should posterity read thine,
It would be strange indeed!"

So energetic and prolific a writer as Mr. Crowley owes it alike to himself and to his readers to develop as best he can the talent which rests latent within him.

The Woodbee for April opens with a melodious poem by Adam Dickson, entitled "Love". While the metre might well be changed in the interests of uniformity, the general effect is not at all harsh, and the author is entitled to no small credit for his production. The only other poem in the magazine is "Alone With Him", by Mrs. Ida C. Haughton. This piece is remarkable for its rhyming arrangement, each rhyme being carried through four lines instead of the usual couplet. The sentiments are just, the images well drawn, and the technique correct; the whole forming a highly commendable addition to amateur literature. "The Melody and Colour of 'The Lady of Shalott'", by Mary Faye Durr, is a striking Tennysonian critique, whose psychological features, involving a comparison of chromatic and poetic elements, are ingenious and unusual. Miss Durr is obviously no careless student of poesy, for the minute analyses of various passages give evidence of thorough assimilation and intelligent comprehension. "On Being Good", by Newton A. Thatcher, contains sound sense and real humour, whilst its pleasingly familiar style augurs well for Mr. Thatcher's progress in this species of composition. "War Reflections", by Herbert Albing, is an apt and thoughtful epitome of the compensating benefits given to mankind by the present belligerent condition of the world. The cogent and comprehensive series of reviews by Miss Edna M. Haughton, and the crisp and pertinent paragraphs by Editor Fritter, combine with the rest of The Woodbee's contents to produce an issue uniformly meritorious.

H. P. LOVECRAFT,
Chairman.

[49]

The Poetry Of The Month CONTENT.
An Epistle to RHEINHART KLEINER, Esq., Poet-Laureate, and Author of "Another Endless Day".
Beatus ille qui procul negotiis,
Ut prisca gens mortalium,
Paterna rura bobus exercet suis.
—HORACE.
KLEINER! in whose quick pulses wildly beat
The youth's ambition, and the lyrist's heat,
Whose questing spirit scorns our lowly flights,
And dares the heavens for sublimer heights:
If passion's force will grant an hour's relief,
Attend a calmer song, nor nurse thy grief.
What is true bliss? Must mortals ever yearn
For stars beyond their reach, and vainly burn;
Must suff'ring man, impatient, seek to scale
Forbidden steeps, where sharper pangs prevail?
Alas for him who chafes at soothing ease,
And cries for fever'd joys and pains to please:
They please a moment, but the pleasure flies,
And the rack'd soul, a prey to passion, dies.
Away, false lures! and let my spirit roam
O'er sweet Arcadia, and the rural home;
Let my sad heart with no new sorrow bleed,
But rest content in Morven's mossy mead.
Wild thoughts and vain ambitions circle near,
Whilst I, at peace, the abbey chimings hear.
Loud shakes the surge of Life's unquiet sea,
Yet smooth the stream that laves the rustic lea.
Let others feel the world's destroying thrill,
As 'midst the kine I haunt the verdant hill.
Rise, radiant sun! to light the grassy glades,
Whose charms I view from grateful beechen shades;
O'er spire and peak diffuse th' expanding gleam
That gilds the grove, and sparkles on the stream.
Awake! ye sylphs of Flora's gorgeous train,
To scent the fields, and deck the rising main.
Soar, feathered flock, and carol o'er the scene,
To cheer the lonely watcher on the green.
Sweet is the song the morning meadow bears,
And with the darkness fade ambitious cares:
Above the abbey tow'r the rays ascend,
As light and peace in matchless beauty blend.
Why should I sigh for realms of toil and stress,
When now I bask in Nature's loveliness;
What thoughts so great, that they must needs expand
Beyond the hills that bound this fragrant land?
These friendly hills my infant vision knew,
And in the shelt'ring vale from birth I grew.
Yon distant spires Ambition's limit show,
For who, here born, could farther wish to go?
When sky-blest evening soothes the world and me,
Are moon and stars more distant from my lea?
No urban glare my sight of heav'n obscures,
And orbs undimm'd rise o'er the neighb'ring moors.
What priceless boon may spreading Fame impart,
When village dignity hath cheer'd the heart?
The little group that hug the tavern fire
To air their wisdom,
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