Part 23 (1/2)
_Alfred Noyes_
Alfred Noyes was born at Staffords.h.i.+re, September 16, 1880. He is one of the few contemporary poets who have been fortunate enough to write a kind of poetry that is not only saleable but popular with many cla.s.ses of people.
His first book, _The Loom of Years_ (1902), was published when he was only 22 years old, and _Poems_ (1904) intensified the promise of his first publication. Swinburne, grown old and living in retirement, was so struck with Noyes's talent that he had the young poet out to read to him. Unfortunately, Noyes has not developed his gifts as deeply as his admirers have hoped. His poetry, extremely straightforward and rhythmical, has often degenerated into cheap sentimentalities and cheaper tirades; it has frequently attempted to express programs and profundities far beyond Noyes's power.
What is most appealing about his best verse is its ease and heartiness; this singer's gift lies in the almost personal bond established between the poet and his public. People have such a good time reading his vivacious lines because Noyes had such a good time writing them. Rhyme in a thumping rhythm seems to be not merely his trade but his morning exercise. Noyes's own relish filled and quickened glees and catches like _Forty Singing Seamen_ (1907), the l.u.s.ty choruses in _Tales of the Mermaid Tavern_ (1913), and the genuinely inspired nonsense of the earlier _Forest of Wild Thyme_ (1905).
The least popular work of Noyes is, as a unified product, his most remarkable performance. It is an epic in twelve books of blank verse, _Drake_ (1908), a glowing pageant of the sea and England's drama upon it. It is a spirited echo of the maritime Elizabethans; a vivid and orchestral work interspersed with splendid lyric pa.s.sages and brisk songs. The companion volume, an attempted reconstruction of the literary phase of the same period, is less successful; but these _Tales of the Mermaid Tavern_ (which introduce Shakespeare, Marlowe, Drayton, Raleigh, Ben Jonson, and other immortals) are alive and colorful, if somewhat too insistently rollicking and smoothly lilting.
His eight volumes were a.s.sembled in 1913 and published in two books of _Collected Poems_ (Frederick A. Stokes Company).
SHERWOOD
Sherwood in the twilight, is Robin Hood awake?
Grey and ghostly shadows are gliding through the brake; Shadows of the dappled deer, dreaming of the morn, Dreaming of a shadowy man that winds a shadowy horn.
Robin Hood is here again: all his merry thieves Hear a ghostly bugle-note s.h.i.+vering through the leaves, Calling as he used to call, faint and far away, In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.
Merry, merry England has kissed the lips of June: All the wings of fairyland were here beneath the moon; Like a flight of rose-leaves fluttering in a mist Of opal and ruby and pearl and amethyst.
Merry, merry England is waking as of old, With eyes of blither hazel and hair of brighter gold: For Robin Hood is here again beneath the bursting spray In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.
Love is in the greenwood building him a house Of wild rose and hawthorn and honeysuckle boughs; Love it in the greenwood: dawn is in the skies; And Marian is waiting with a glory in her eyes.
Hark! The dazzled laverock climbs the golden steep: Marian is waiting: is Robin Hood asleep?
Round the fairy gra.s.s-rings frolic elf and fay, In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.
Oberon, Oberon, rake away the gold, Rake away the red leaves, roll away the mould, Rake away the gold leaves, roll away the red, And wake Will Scarlett from his leafy forest bed.
Friar Tuck and Little John are riding down together With quarter-staff and drinking-can and grey goose-feather; The dead are coming back again; the years are rolled away In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.
Softly over Sherwood the south wind blows; All the heart of England hid in every rose Hears across the greenwood the sunny whisper leap, Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep?
Hark, the voice of England wakes him as of old And, shattering the silence with a cry of brighter gold, Bugles in the greenwood echo from the steep, _Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep?_
Where the deer are gliding down the shadowy glen All across the glades of fern he calls his merry men; Doublets of the Lincoln green glancing through the May, In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day;
Calls them and they answer: from aisles of oak and ash Rings the _Follow! Follow!_ and the boughs begin to crash; The ferns begin to flutter and the flowers begin to fly; And through the crimson dawning the robber band goes by.
_Robin! Robin! Robin!_ All his merry thieves Answer as the bugle-note s.h.i.+vers through the leaves: Calling as he used to call, faint and far away, In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.
THE BARREL-ORGAN
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.
And now it's marching onward through the realms of old romance, And trolling out a fond familiar tune, And now it's roaring cannon down to fight the King of France, And now it's prattling softly to the moon.