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Poems.

(Eileen Duggan. N.Z. "Tablet" Co., Dunedin.)

We have always had the greatest admiration for that small amount of Miss Duggan's verse that has been published in "The Spike." After reading her booklet of "Poems," we regret more than ever that so little of her work has appeared here.

Father Kelly, in his preface to the "Poems," says: "It seems to me that they are the product of a heart and mind inspired by two forces—Catholicism and a love for Ireland." Nothing can be more interesting than to discern the working of these forces on the mind of a young New Zealander the background of whose thought is made up of entirely New Zealand impressions. Still, we regret that it cannot be said that the characteristic spirit of V.U.C. is a third force of her inspiration.

We can well understand how Catholicism and Ireland appeal to one, endowed as she is, with the gift of insight and of sympathy with suffering. We like to think that we see her as the embodiment of her own New Zealand, which she pictures so strikingly in her poem "Two Lands." There is nothing submissive about her attitude—rather the other way. In her:

"Fear knew not to evade
As Love wist to pursue."

And here, in New Zealand, Ireland has need of a partisan. Miss Duggan convinces us not of the truth of what she is saying (we are no judge of that), but of her own sincerity. She is sure of herself, and with unity within she is able to create.

She enables us to see with her eye and to interpret with her mind. The famine wind that blew from out the four corners of twilight

"—eried at a window in Antrim,
It caught at a Connacht hasp,
It sobbed to a fisher in Minister,
And startled his net from his grasp."

She has given a beautiful thought in her "Mater Dolorosa," where she describes Mary's memories of the Christ-child. Instead of seeing Him on the Cross, she sees

—"a lithe, sweet form 'that played
By Joseph's bench in Nazareth,
And, shouting, pricked the cruel nails
Into its little tawny palms
To start and moan in childish pain."

We remember our own experiences when she reminds us of them:

"My Soul to-day is like a beaten child,
That cowers with sobbing moan low in the dark,
Catching its breath in memory of the rod."

Of the poets who have influenced Miss Duggan, we imagine that Francis Thompson holds a chief place. "The Child Wonderful" is reminiscent of him, and so is "Consolation," a poem not included in this little booklet. "Consolation" contains a lament and a hope:

"Mourn not for her who now forgetteth mourning,
Cease from to-day your grief and sorrowing.
She who on earth went pattering over autumn,
Now threadeth daisies in the meadow of the spring."

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It is a wonderful gift—the gift of song. Whither it will lead her we cannot say. Ireland and Catholicism have many voices, as you yourself have suggested, Miss Duggan:—

"God has so many troubadours,
With songs of March and May.
On pipe and flageolet,
To flute of flower and seed;
God has so many troubadours
To sing in court and train.
He will not miss my bitter reed,
I shall not sing again."

Will you, we wonder, yet find in New Zealand something to arouse your sympathy, to awake your pity, or to fire your enthusiasm?

E. R. D.