this poetry by reading in the books of Homer, of Dante, or of Milton.

Eschylus' bronze-throat, eagle bark for blood

Has somewhat spoilt my taste for twitterings

says Browning somewhere. The absence of largeness and freedom, of far horizons and noble spaces, this we feel in the company of the minor poets, but with the De Veres we are among the mountains. Because neither Sir Aubrey nor Mr. Aubrey de Vere found modern life rich in inspiring forces, and each was touched less by the ideals of the present than by those of the past, perhaps for this reason and because so much of their work is dramatic in form and intention they have won no large share of popular acceptance. It is not surprising that this should be true of poetry characterised by its singular aloofness from contemporary thought and feeling, characterised by its impersonality, its dramatic method and character. This is poetry whose themes are not chosen at the bidding of the poet's affections, but rather at the bidding of his genius. And when this is said we have placed it, in conception and aim at least, in the highest company. The lesser poet writes at the dictation of his moods, but for Lucretius and Sophocles the sphere of poetry is not delimited by the feelings that sway the inconstant heart, making it an Eolian lyre responsive to all idle winds.

Not improbably, I think, Mr. De Vere would prefer to be judged by his poems upon Irish subjects rather than by any other part of his work. For in his old Irish lays, heroic in theme, spiritual in significance, and in his poems which enshrine the traditions of the Medieval Church, Mr. De Vere is most at home in spirit, and perhaps is at his best. Here he strikes a note which falls upon the ear with a mingled solemnity and joyousness, and seems to breathe the very air of that old world of unconscious saintliness and glad romance. Whatever of beauty or of good dwelt with the ages that found in religion their joy as well as their peace is gathered into these legends; Cuchullin, Oisín and Ethell, Naisi and Deirdré, look out upon us like the faces on some old tapestry, but far more

lifelike.

Cuchullin in his war-car, calling the horses by their well-known names, and dashing through Eman's gateway as a storm; Ethell, bard of Brian MacGuire, who sang of policy to chieftains and princes, of love to maids in the bower, and Of war at the feastings in bawn or grove;

the lovers Naisi and Deirdré, self-forgetful, hand in hand, singing their passionate song of life and death-these are the true children of Ireland's golden age, called from the shores of dreamland to feed our hearts with the poetry of a nation's childhood.

It may be argued that the poetry of the De Veres is distinctively English, formed by English traditions, the product of English culture. It may be argued that it belongs to the classical school rather than to the school of romance. And indisputably in many of Mr. De Vere's finest and most characteristic passages we feel that he inherits in the line of Chaucer and of Dryden. Take this passage from his magnificent Autumnal Ode:'

It is the Autumnal epode of the year :

The Nymphs that urge the seasons on their round,
They to whose green lap flies the startled deer

When bays the far-off hound,

They that drag April by the rain bright hair,

Though sun-showers doze her, and the rude winds scare,
O'er March's frosty bound,

They by whose warm and furtive hand unwound

The cestus falls from May's new-wedded breast,

Silent they stand beside dead Summer's bier,

With folded palms and faces to the West,
And their loose tresses sweep the dewy ground.

Nevertheless, Mr. De Vere is rightly ranked with the Irish poets. The profound sympathy with the Celtic nature, the insight into the Celtic heart, are there, and not a few unmistakable Celtic affinities, not a little of the Celtic charm. For some reason or other the Celtic imagination is less stirred by richness or picturesqueness in Nature than the Saxon imagination, dwells less in its happiest moments upon

landscape luxuriant in leaf and flower, the valley with its lush pasture or the promise of the tilled glebe; it is stirred rather by Nature in her severer aspects and by landscape of fewer elements—by the austere outline of cliff or mountain, the pure curve of the far rim of ocean. 'Delightful to be on Ben Eddar,' sings Columba in some charming verses-charming even in translation-written fifteen hundred years ago :

Delightful to be on Ben Eddar

Before going o'er the white sea;

The dashing of the wave against its face,
The bareness of its shore and its border.

And in Celtic poetry likewise the emotions are purer, less complex, more elemental, more spiritual than in Saxon poetry. Simplicity, then, with full-heartedness-whether in joy or griefa childlike transparency of soul, a courageous spirituality, these Celtic qualities Mr. De Vere's poetry preserves for us; and because it preserves them his memory and his work are safe. He will be enrolled as a worthy successor to the bards of long ago, from Oiseen or

That Taliessin once who made the rivers dance,

And in his rapture raised the mountains from their trance.

W. MACNEILE DIXON.

Mr. Aubrey De Vere, third son of Sir Aubrey, was born at Curragh Chase in 1814. Besides a number of prose works, critical and miscel laneous, Mr. De Vere's poetical works have been published in six volumes, 1884.

Later volumes issued by him have been : LEGENDS AND RECORDS of THE CHURCH AND THE EMPIRE, 1887; ST. PETER'S CHAINS, 1888; MEDIEVAL RECORDS AND SONNETS, 1893. Two well-edited volumes of selections from his poetical writings have appeared, one by John Dennis (London, 1890) and one by G. E. Woodberry (New York, 1894).

THE SUN GOD

I SAW the Master of the Sun. He stood

High in his luminous car, himself more bright-
An Archer of immeasurable might;

On his left shoulder hung his quivered load,
Spurned by his steeds the eastern mountain glowed,
Forward his eager eye and brow of light

He bent; and, while both hands that arch embowed,
Shaft after shaft pursued the flying Night.
No wings profaned that godlike form; around
His neck high held an ever-moving crowd
Of locks hung glistening; while such perfect sound
Fell from his bowstring that th' ethereal dome

Thrilled as a dewdrop; and each passing cloud
Expanded, whitening like the ocean foam.

From THE BARD ETHELL

IRELAND, THIRTEENTH CENTURY

I

I AM Ethell, the son of Conn;

Here I live at the foot of the hill;

I am clansman to Brian and servant to none;
Whom I hated I hate, whom I loved love still.
Blind am I. On milk I live,

And meat; God sends it on each Saint's day, Though Donald MacArt-may he never thrive Last Shrovetide drove half my kine away.

II

At the brown hill's base, by the pale blue lake
I dwell, and see the things I saw ;

The heron flap heavily up from the brake,

The crow fly homeward with twig or straw,
The wild duck, a silver line in wake,

Cutting the calm mere to far Bunaw.

And the things that I heard, though deaf I hear :
From the tower in the island the feastful cheer,
The horn from the wood, the plunge of the stag,
With the loud hounds after him down from the crag.
Sweet is the chase, but the battle is sweeter;

More healthful, more joyous, for true men meeter !

My hand is weak; it once was strong.
My heart burns still with its ancient fire.
If any man smite me, he does me wrong,
For I was the Bard of Brian MacGuire.
If any man slay me-not unaware,

By no chance blow, nor in wine and revel-
I have stored beforehand a curse in my prayer
For his kith and kindred; his deed is evil.

IV

There never was King, and there never will be,
In battle or banquet like Malachi !

The Seers his reign have predicted long ;
He honoured the Bards, and gave gold for song.
If rebels arose, he put out their eyes;

If robbers plundered or burned the fanes
He hung them in chaplets, like rosaries,

That others, beholding, might take more pains.
There was none to woman more reverent-minded,
For he held his mother and Mary dear ;
If any man wronged them, that man he blinded,
Or straight amerced him of hand or ear.

There was none who founded more convents-none:
In his palace the old and the poor were fed ;
The orphan walked, and the widow's son,

Without groom or page to his throne or bed.
In council he mused with great brows divine
And eyes like the eyes of the musing kine,
Upholding a Sceptre o'er which, men said,
Seven spirits of wisdom like fire-tongues played.
He drained ten lakes and he built ten bridges;
He bought a gold book for a thousand cows;
He slew ten Princes who brake their pledges;
With the bribed and the base he scorned to carouse.
He was sweet and awful; through all his reign
God gave great harvests to vale and plain;
From his nurse's milk he was kind and brave;
And when he went down to his well-wept grave