But beautiful as it is in detail, this poem, and at least one other in
the little volume, have the great merit which has hitherto been
lacking in the best of Mr. Davidson's work. They are thoroughly
considered; seen as solid wholes; seen not only in front but round at
the back. In fact, they are natural growths of Mr. Davidson's
philosophy of life. In his "Ballad of the Making of a Poet" Mr.
Davidson lets us know his conception of the poet's proper function.
"I am a man apart:
A mouthpiece for the creeds of all the world;
A soulless life that angels may possess
Or demons haunt, wherein the foulest things
May loll at ease beside the loveliest;
A martyr for all mundane moods to tear;
The slave of every passion; and the slave
Of heat and cold, of darkness and of light;
A trembling lyre for every wind to sound.
* * * * *
Within my heart
I'll gather all the universe, and sing
As sweetly as the spheres; and I shall be
The first of men to understand himself...."
Making, of course, full concessions to the demands of poetical
treatment, we may assume pretty confidently that Mr. Davidson intended
this "Ballad in Blank Verse of the Making of a Poet" for a soul's
autobiography, of a kind. If so, I trust he will forgive me for
doubting if he is at all likely to fulfil the poet's office as he
conceives it here, or even to approach within measurable distance of
his ideal--
"A trembling lyre for every wind to sound."
That it is one way in which a poet may attain, I am not just now
denying. But luckily men attain in many ways: and the man who sits
himself down of fixed purpose to be an Æolian harp for the winds of
the world, is of all men the least likely to be merely Æolian. For the
first demand of Æolian sound is that the instrument should have no
theories of its own; and explicitly to proclaim yourself Æolian is
implicitly to proclaim yourself didactic. As a matter of fact, both
the "Ballad of the Making of a Poet" and the "Ballad of a Nun" contain
sharply pointed morals very stoutly driven home. In each the poet has
made up his mind; he has a theory of life, and presents that theory to
us under cover of a parable. The beauty of the "Ballad of a Nun"--or
so much of it as stands beyond and above mere beauty of
language--consists in this, that it is informed, and consciously
informed, by a spirit of tolerance so exceedingly wide that to match
it I can find one poem and one only among those of recent years: I
mean "Catherine Kinrade." In Mr. Brown's poem the Bishop is welcomed
into Heaven by the half-wilted harlot he had once condemned to painful
and public punishment. In Mr. Davidson's poem, Mary, the Mother of
Heaven, herself takes the form and place of the wandering nun and
fills it until the penitent returns. Take either poem: take Mr.
Brown's--
"Awe-stricken, he was 'ware
How on the Emerald stair
A woman sat divinely clothed in white,
And at her knees four cherubs bright.
That laid
Their heads within their lap. Then, trembling, he essayed
To speak--'Christ's mother, pity me!'
Then answered she--
'Sir, I am Catherine Kinrade.'"