Young Adventure Part 1

Young Adventure.

by Stephen Vincent Benet.

Dedication

And so, to you, who always were Perseus, D'Artagnan, Lancelot To me, I give these weedy rhymes In memory of earlier times.

Now all those careless days are not.

Of all my heroes, you endure.

Words are such silly things! too rough, Too smooth, they boil up or congeal, And neither of us likes emotion -- But I can't measure my devotion!

And you know how I really feel -- And we're together. There, enough,...!

Foreword by Chauncey Brewster Tinker

In these days when the old civilisation is crumbling beneath our feet, the thought of poetry crosses the mind like the dear memory of things that have long since pa.s.sed away. In our pa.s.sionate desire for the new era, it is difficult to refrain oneself from the commonplace practice of speculating on the effects of warfare and of prophesying all manner of novel rebirths. But it may be well for us to remember that the era which has recently closed was itself marked by a mad idealisation of all novelties. In the literary movements of the last decade --when, indeed, any movement at all has been perceptible -- we have witnessed a bewildering rise and fall of methods and ideals. We were captivated for a time by the quest of the golden phrase and the accompanying cultivation of exotic emotions; and then, wearying of the pretty and the temperamental, we plunged into the bloodshot brutalities of naturalism.

From the smooth-flowing imitations of Tennyson and Swinburne, we pa.s.sed into a false freedom that had at its heart a repudiation of all law and standards, for a parallel to which one turns instinctively to certain recent developments in the political world. We may hope that the eager search for novelty of form and subject may have its influence in releasing us from our old bondage to the commonplace and in broadening the scope of poetry; but we cannot blind ourselves to the fact that it has at the same time completed that estrangement between the poet and the general public which has been developing for half a century. The great ma.s.s of the reading world, to whom the arts should minister, have now forgotten that poetry is a consolation in times of doubt and peril, a beacon, and "an ever-fixed mark" in a crazed and s.h.i.+fting world. Our poetry --and I am speaking in particular of American poetry -- has been centrifugal; our poets have broken up into smaller and ever smaller groups. Individualism has triumphed.

To the general confusion, critics, if they may be said to have existed at all, have added by their paltry conception of the art. They have deemed it a sufficient denunciation of a poet to accuse him of imitating his masters; as though the history of an art were rather a series of violent rebellions than a growth and a progressive illumination. Not all generations are privileged to see the working of a great creative impulse, but the want, keen though it be, furnishes no reason for the utter rejection of

A tremulous murmur from great days long dead.

But this fear of echoing the past may work us a yet greater misfortune.

In the rejection of the manner of an earlier epoch may be implicit also the rejection of the very sources from which springs the life of the fair art. Melody, and a love of the green earth, and a yearning for G.o.d are of the very fabric of poetry, deny it who will. The Muses still reign on Parna.s.sus, wax the heathen never so furious. Poets who love poetry better than their own fame in Grub Street will do well to remember

The flame, the n.o.ble pageant of our life; The burning seal that stamps man's high indenture To vain attempt and most forlorn adventure; Romance and purple seas, and toppling towns, And the wind's valiance crying o'er the downs.

It is a poor business to find in such words only the illusions of youth and a new enthusiasm. The desire for novelty, the pa.s.sion for force and dirt, and the hankering after freakishness of mood, which many have attempted to subst.i.tute for the older and simpler things, are themselves the best evidence of disillusion and jaded nerves. There is a weariness and a disgust in our recent impatience with beauty which indicate too clearly the exhaustion of our spiritual resources. It may well be that the rebirth of poetry is to be manifest in a reappearance of the obvious, --in a love of the sea and of the beauty of clouds, in the adventure of death and the yet more amazing adventure of living, in a vital love of colour, whether of the Orient or the drug-shop, in childlike love of melody, and the cool cleansing of rain, in strange faces and old memories. This, in the past, has been poetry, and this will be poetry again. The singer who, out of a full heart, can offer to the world his vision of its beauty, and out of a n.o.ble mind, his conception of its destiny, will bestow upon his time the most precious gift which we can now receive, the gift of his healing power.

C. B. T.

I. The Drug-Shop, or, Endymion in Edmonstoun

Prefatory Note.

This poem received the nineteenth award of the prize offered by Professor Albert Stanburrough Cook to Yale University for the best unpublished verse, the Committee of Award consisting of Professors C. F.

Tucker Brooke, of Yale University, Robert Frost, of Amherst College, and Charles M. Gayley, of the University of California.

"Oh yes, I went over to Edmonstoun the other day and saw Johnny, mooning around as usual! He will never make his way."

--Letter of George Keats, 18--

Night falls; the great jars glow against the dark, Dark green, dusk red, and, like a coiling snake, Writhing eternally in smoky gyres, Great ropes of gorgeous vapor twist and turn Within them. So the Eastern fisherman Saw the swart genie rise when the lead seal, Scribbled with charms, was lifted from the jar; And -- well, how went the tale? Like this, like this?...

No herbage broke the barren flats of land, No winds dared loiter within smiling trees, Nor were there any brooks on either hand, Only the dry, bright sand, Naked and golden, lay before the seas.

One boat toiled noiselessly along the deep, The thirsty ripples dying silently Upon its track. Far out the brown nets sweep, And night begins to creep Across the intolerable mirror of the sea.

Twice the nets rise, a-trail with sea-plants brown, Distorted sh.e.l.ls, and rocks green-mossed with slime, Nought else. The fisher, sick at heart, kneels down; "Prayer may appease G.o.d's frown,"

He thinks, then, kneeling, casts for the third time.

And lo! an earthen jar, bound round with bra.s.s, Lies tangled in the cordage of his net.

About the bright waves gleam like shattered gla.s.s, And where the sea's rim was The sun dips, flat and red, about to set.

The prow grates on the beach. The fisherman Stoops, tearing at the cords that bind the seal.

Shall pearls roll out, l.u.s.trous and white and wan?

Lapis? carnelian?

Unheard-of stones that make the sick mind reel

With wonder of their beauty? Rubies, then?

Green emeralds, glittering like the eyes of beasts?

Poisonous opals, good to madden men?

Gold bezants, ten and ten?

Hard, regal diamonds, like kingly feasts?

He tugged; the seal gave way. A little smoke Curled like a feather in the darkening sky.

A blinding gush of fire burst, flamed, and broke.

A voice like a wind spoke.

Armored with light, and turbaned terribly,

A genie tramped the round earth underfoot; His head sought out the stars, his cupped right hand Made half the sky one darkness. He was mute.

The sun, a ripened fruit, Drooped lower. Scarlet eddied o'er the sand.

The genie spoke: "O miserable one!

Thy prize awaits thee; come, and hug it close!

A n.o.ble crown thy draggled nets have won For this that thou hast done.

Blessed are fools! A gift remains for those!"

His hand sought out his sword, and lightnings flared Across the sky in one great bloom of fire.

Poised like a toppling mountain, it hung bared; Suns that were jewels glared Along its hilt. The air burnt like a pyre.

Once more the genie spoke: "Something I owe To thee, thou fool, thou fool. Come, canst thou sing?

Yea? Sing then; if thy song be brave, then go Free and released -- or no!

Find first some task, some overmastering thing I cannot do, and find it speedily, For if thou dost not thou shalt surely die!"

The sword whirled back. The fisherman uprose, And if at first his voice was weak with fear And his limbs trembled, it was but a doze, And at the high song's close He stood up straight. His voice rang loud and clear.