Loyola College - Review Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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LOTYOLAÀ COLLEGE REVIEW М He is perched upon а high stool in London. The Golden Gate is very far away. They caught him and they caged him like a squirrel, е Не is totting up accounts and going grey. He will never, never, never sail to 'Frisco. But the very last thing that he will see Will ђе sailor-men a-dancing in the sunrise By the capstan that stands upon the quay. . . To the tune of an old concertina, By the capstan that stands upon the quay. An appreciation of Alfred Noyes would not be complete without men- tioning his long narrative poems and his lyrical ballads which have ‘‘done much to win for him what is in these times an astonishing popularity. Of one of these ( Drake ) Rudyard Kipling wrote, ‘І am not craftsman enough to understand all the mechanism of blank verse, but the tale itself held me yester- day from one end to the other. Among the most popular of his ballads аге Forty Singing Seamen,”’ Companion of a Mile, “Тһе Barrel-Organ, “Тһе Silk О’ the Kine.” The music, the technique, and especially the refrains interwoven into the stories (in the use of which Mr. Noyes is a master), make these lyrical tales unforgettable. One can almost hear the barrel-organ playing in the poem of that name; the metre is changed to correspond with the chang- ing music of the organ. It begins: There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street In the city as the sun sinks low; And the music's not immortal; but the world has made it sweet And fulfilled it with the sunset glow; And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the pain That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light; And they've given it a glory and a part to play again In the Symphony that rules the day and night. The sonnet, “Тһе Double Fortress,” illustrates the deep feeling and artistic reserve of which Noyes is capable: Time, wouldst thou hurt us? Never shall we grow old. Break as thou wilt these bodies of blind clay, Thou canst not touch us here, in our stronghold, Where two, made one, laugh all thy powers away. Though ramparts crumble and rusty gates grow thin, And our brave fortress dwine to a hollow shell, Thou shalt hear heavenly laughter, far within; Ы m= as Love, two hidden lovers well. We shall go clambering up our twisted stairs To watch the moon through rifts in our grey towers. Thou shalt hear whispers, kisses and sweet prayers Creeping through all our creviced walls like owers. Wouldst wreck us, Time? When thy dull leaguer brings The last wall down, look heavenward. We have wings. In attempting this essay, I have not endeavoured to write a literary criti- que; but rather, merely a short exposi- tory appreciation, with the view to stimulate in others interest in one who has been eminently interesting to me. Nor can I be accused of overrating Noyes as a poet, for I have, subtly, spoken with the whispers at my back ‘‘of those who are far greater men than I. Noyes deserves appreciation, for he is a literary artist, than whom contemporary poetry shows none better. I will conclude by quoting an en- comium from Williams’ scholarly vol- ume ''Modern English Writers,’’ which, TEAM of Noyes’ book ''Flower of ld Тарап,” says: ‘‘His naive melodies are here perfectly in place, in a bazaar- like dep of dainty things—ivories, fans, ради plumaged birds, bright sailed ships, glancing seas and gleaming clouds. Even Mr. У. W. Gibson... does not write so brightly as this, for Mr. Noyes outvies the extravagant painting of Browning in ‘Sordello.’ ' Lewis J. PHELAN, '28. $397

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LOYOLA ООО О ОПЕ СОЕ REVIEW وھ سم that he has had is, extraordinarily, that his poetry is too rich and too beautiful. An English critic recently wrote that he suffers from an ‘‘embarras de riches- se. But it is difficult to see how litera- ture could possibly suffer on this ac- count, for in these days the trouble lies not in having too much beauty, but too little. Rather, the ugly realistic strain which modern writing seems to en- gender is to be more greatly feared than the symphonic fairyland and luxuriant foliage which comprise Noyes' garden of verse. Noyes’ war poems are among the most powerful outbursts of patriotism which the war has produced. Like Siegfried Sassoon, his poems are a pro- test against war and a call to peace. He pictures war in the grim colours that war demands, and frequently wields to good advantage in this regard, a keen rapier of satire. The following extract is from his spirited and graphic poem “Тһе Avenue of the Allies, —а poem which many regard as a fine flourish of patriotic enthusiasm and international good-will and a glorious tribute to the American people. To this poem ex- President Taft wrote a glowing intro- duction in which he proclaimed the author to be one of the great poets of this generation and gave him unbounded praise for his contributions to war and peace. The poem is like a spontaneous outpouring of virile and magnificent martial music sounding the sacred an- them of Liberty: This is the sound of the wind as it came Tossing the flags of the nations to flame: I am the breath of God. I am His laughter. I am His Liberty. That is my name. So it descended, at night, on the city. So it went lavishing beauty and pity, Lighting the lordliest street of the world With half of the banners that earth has unfurled, Over the lamps that are brighter than stars, Laughing aloud on its way to the wars, Proud as America sweeping along Death and destruction like notes in a song, Leaping to battle as man to his mate, Joyous as God when He moved to create,— Never was voice of a nation so glorious, Glad of its cause and afire with its fate! Never did eagle on mightier pinion Tower to the height of a brighter dominion, Kindling the hope of the prophets of flame, Calling aloud on the deep as 1t came, Cleave me a way for an army with banners. I am His Liberty. That is my name. Mr. Noyes’ many volumes of poems afford such a mass of genuine music that it is difficult to extract isolated passages to illustrate his mastery of rhythm. Note the richness of the words and the combination of beauty and song, along with the clever usage of euphony, in the following excerpt from the Виде-аје ': The cows аге crunching flowers and dew, Their long blue shadows are dwining. Their hooves are gold with butter-cup dust CThere's gold, wet gold on your ankles, too) And their coats like silk are shining. Dew—dew—and a dance in the spray of it. Dew—Dew—and а light in the grey of it, Dew—dew—and a bride in the way of it, Waking at dawn to be married. Note the music, the song quality, the flowing rhythm, and the absolute sim- ues in the following stanzas taken rom the lyric ''Old Grey Squirrel. On reading it one cannot help but fall a victim to the swing of its metre; but when one hears it from Mr. Noyes' own lips (as was the good fortune of the present writer), with his own words stressed and cadenced to his own liking, the poem is made doubly fascinating. А great while ago there was a school-boy. He lived in a cottage by the sea. And the very first thing he could remember Was the rigging of the schooners by the quay. He could watch them, when he woke, from his window, With the tall cranes hoisting up the freight. And he used to think of shipping as a sea-cook, And sailing to the Golden Gate. And, before he went to sleep in the evening, The very last thing that he could see Was the sailor-men a-dancing in the moonlight By the capstan that stood upon the quay. 47 |

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LOYOLA COLLEGE REVIEW Pilate Pleads I did my best for Him; not I But those accursed fools would have Him die. And how was I to know that they Would free the thief so they might slay This Christ? Whom I could not defend If still I wished to stay great Casar s friend.. I did my best. He understood That I was guiltless of His Blood. But then those words? what was His plan? When He said: °‘ Pilate, play the тап.” Was I not just? By heaven, I swear I played the man, and I was fair. Hear me! before that mocking crowd Was Pontius Pilate trembling, cowed? And in my tray did I not lave My hands? Was not that bold act brave? Before them all to let them see His Blood was spilt in spite of me? That was a deed magnificent To show I deemed Him innocent. But when the man was led away— T'was strange—There was Blood in my tray. JOHN ROBINSON Cummins, '28.