* * * * * *
"But, leetle Bateese! please don' forget
We rader you're stayin' de small boy yet,
So chase de chicken an' mak' dem scare,
An' do w'at you lak wit' your old gran'pere
For we'n you're beeg feller he won't be dere—
Leetle Bateese!"
John W. Garvin, who has manifested his devotion to the muses by compiling a notable anthology of Canadian poets (recently published), is also a poet of recognition, and one of his productions, entitled Majesty, is especially original in conception. Mr. Garvin's devotion to the poetic literature of his country has rendered great service in the way of making the poets known to the general reading public and bringing together, within convenient limits, much that is best in poetic art.
The names come to mind of Alfred Gordon, a young and gifted English poet now a resident of Montreal; of Ethelyn Wetherald, Robert Norwood, E. Pauline Johnson, the daughter of Chief Johnson of the Mohawks; of Virna Sheard, Alma Frances McCollum, Albert D. Watson, William McLennan, and William Douw Lighthall (whose recognition extends far beyond his native country); of Charles Mair, whose Tecumseh contains much that is excellent in poetic lore. Marjorie L. C. Pickthall has already established a claim to the wide recognition that opens before her, and her poem The Lamp of Poor Souls must be especially remembered. Jean Blewett is one of the most thoughtful and beautiful of the present choir of singers. Mrs. Blewett is Canadian born, and something of the high seriousness of life that characterises the Reverend Canon Scott seems reflected in the poems of Mrs. Blewett; as in the following, entitled Discontent:
"My soul spoke low to Discontent:
Long hast thou lodged with me,
Now, ere the strength of me is spent,
I would be quit of thee.
"Thy presence means revolt, unrest,
Means labour, longing, pain;
Go, leave me, thou unwelcome guest,
Nor trouble me again.
"Then something strong and sweet and fair
Rose up and made reply:
Who gave you the desire to dare
And do the right? 'Twas I.
"The coward soul craves pleasant things,
Soft joys and dear delights—
I scourged you till you spread your wings
And soared to nobler heights.
"You know me but imperfectly—
My surname is Divine;
God's own right hand did prison me
Within this soul of thine,
"Lest thou, forgetting work and strife,
By human longings prest,
Shouldst miss the grandest things of life,
Its battles and unrest."