Wishmaker's Town - Page 2

a stream, No, never again shall he meet with a dower that shall seem So sweet and pure; and forever, in after years, At the thought of its bloom, or the fragrance of its breath, The past shall arise, And his eyes shall be dim with tears, And his soul shall be far in the gardens of Paradise Though he stand in the Shambles of death.

In a different tone, but displaying the same sureness of execution, is the cry of the lowly folk, the wretched pawns in the great game of life:

Prince, and Bishop, and Knight, and Dame, Plot, and plunder, and disagree! O but the game is a royal game! O but your tourneys are fair to see!

None too hopeful we found our lives; Sore was labor from day to day; Still we strove for our babes and wives-- Now, to the trumpet, we march away!

"Why?"--For some one hath will'd it so! Nothing we know of the why or the where-- To swamp, or jungle, or wastes of snow-- Nothing we know, and little we care.

Give us to kill!--since this is the end Of love and labor in Nature's plan; Give us to kill and ravish and rend, Yea, since this is the end of man.

States shall perish, and states be born: Leaders, out of the throng, shall press; Some to honor, and some to scorn: We, that are little, shall yet be less.

Over our lines shall the vultures soar; Hard on our flanks shall the jackals cry; And the dead shall be as the sands of the shore; And daily the living shall pray to die.

Nay, what matter!--When all is said, Prince and Bishop will plunder still: Lord and Lady must dance and wed. Pity us, pray for us, ye that will!

It is only the fear of impinging on Mr. Young's copyright that prevents me reprinting the graphic ballad of The Wanderer and the prologue of The Strollers, which reads like a page from the prelude to some Old-World miracle play. The setting of these things is frequently antique, but the thought is the thought of today. I think there is a new generation of readers for such poetry as Mr. Young's. I venture the prophecy that it will not lack for them later when the time comes for the inevitable rearrangement of present poetic values.

The author of "Wishmakers' Town" is the child of his period, and has not escaped the maladie du siecle. The doubt and pessimism that marked the end of the nineteenth century find a voice in the bell-like strophes with which the volume closes. It is the dramatist rather than the poet who speaks here. The real message of the poet to mankind is ever one of hope. Amid the problems that perplex and discourage, it is for him to sing

Of what the world shall be When the years have died away.