vase,

he rebukes his fellow countrymen for this: "On an old attic " he says, "stand the three original Muses, the ones that were first worshipped, even before the Nine, who are now world-known: Mneme, Melete, Aoede,-Memory, Study, Song.With the first and last, we have cultivated our acquaintance; and never must we show any contempt for the fruit of our love for them. Only with the middle one, we are not on good terms. She seems to be somewhat inaccessible, and she does not fill our eyes enough to attract us. We have always looked, and now still, we look, for what is easiest or handiest. Is that, I wonder, a fault of our race or of our age? And is the French philosopher Fouillèe somewhat right when in his book on the Psychology of Races he counts among our defects our aversion to great and above all endless labors?" That Palamas is not subject to this fault, one has only to glance at his works to be convinced. There is no important force in the world's Thought and Expression whether past or present to which Palamas is a stranger. All literatures of Europe, America, or Asia are an open book for him. The pulses of the world's artists, the thought-battles of the philosophers, the fears and hopes of the social unrest, the religious emancipation of our day, the far reaching conflict of individual and state, in short, all events of importance in the social, political, spiritual, literary, and artistic life are familiar sources of inspiration for him. With all, he shows the lofty spirit of a worshipper of sublimity, greatness and depth wherever he finds them. Tolstoi or Aeschylus, Goethe or Dante, Ibsen or Poe, Swinburne or Walt Whitman, Leopardi or Rabelais, Hugo or Carlyle, Serbian Folk Lore or the Bible, Hindu legends or Italian songs, Antiquity or Middle Ages, Renaissance or Modernity, any nation or any lore are objects worthy of study and stores of wisdom for him. Indeed, very few living poets could compare with him in scholarship and learning.

Nor does he lift his voice only for individual or national throbbings. He sings of the great and noble whenever he sees it. One of his best lyric creations is a song of praise to the valor of the champions of Transvaal's freedom, his Hymn to the Valiant, the first of the collection entitled From the Hymns and Wraths, a paean that has been most highly lauded by Professor D. C. Hesseling of the University of Leiden (Nederlansche Spectator, March, 1901). Here is a fragment of it, the words which the Muse addresses to the poet:

Awake! Thou art not maker of statues! Awake! For songs thou singest!

And song is not forever

The heart's lament

To fading leaves of autumn,

Nor the secret speech thou speakest,

A Soul of Dream, to the shadows of Night.

For suddenly there is a clash and groaning!
The joy of birds sea-beaten,

In storms of Elements

And storms of Nations!

Song is, too,

The Marathonian Triumpher!

Over the ashes of Sodoma,

It is blown by the mouth of wrath!

Something great and something beautiful,

Something from far away,

Travelling Glory brings thee

On her sky-wandering pinions.

Glory has come! On her wings and on her feet, Signs of her wanderings are shown,

Dust gold-loaded and distant;

And she brings aloes blossoming, first-seen,

From the land that feeds the Kaffir's flocks.

In your summers, the aged,

Spring new-born has spread!

From North to South,

The Atlantic Dragon groans a groan first-heard;

To the African lakes and forests,

His groan has spread and echoed;

From the Red Sea, a Lamia's palace,

To the foam-shaped breast of the White Sea, A Nereid's realm.

Thinly the plants were growing

On the bosom of the ancient Motherland;

Winds carried away the seed

And brought it to the Libyan fields

And scattered it into deep ravines
And on the lofty mountain lawns.

A new blood filled the herbs,
And even the strong-stemmed plants
Waxed stronger.

Men war-glad are risen!
And the waterfalls roar
In the mountain's heart;
Men war-glad are risen
Like diamonds rare to behold
That the earth begets about!

You know them, heights, winds, horizons,
High tides and murmurings of restless waters,
Golden fountains, that shall become
Their crowns!

And you, O god-built mountain passes,
Castles fit for them, you know them;
Their fame, thou heraldest with pride.
From thy verdant distant country

To Europe Imperial,

O Africa, O slave unknown!

Within the limits of a magazine article, it would be difficult to enter every nook and corner of the poet's world. We must even pass over some of the most potent influences of his life. The national dreams of the Modern Greeks have a splendid dwelling in the soul of Palamas, who follows with restlessness his people's woes and exults in their joys. A group of poems dedicated to the Land That Rose in Arms and published in the last volume of the poet's work, the Town and Wilderness are his noblest and most optimistic patriotic expression. The present world-conflict has naturally stirred him to lofty and powerful compositions, which, although they have not yet appeared in book form, have nevertheless delighted the readers of Noumas and

of other Modern Greek magazines. But from the number of the life influences which we have scantily traced in Palamas' work, we may conclude with safety that he is a true representative of the great world and of the age in which he lives. Loving and true to his immediate surroundings, he does not localize himself in them, nor does he shut his thought within his personal feelings and experiences, but he travels far and wide with the thought and action of the universal man and fills his life with the life of his age. In his own modest way, Palamas expresses his connection with the world in his preface to his great masterpiece The Twelve Words of the Gypsy.

It is exactly his universalism that makes this work his grandest expression and the most difficult to understand thoroughly. It contains so much thought resulting from the throbbings of our times that we must feel and know our age before we can grasp the power of the words sung by this wandering spirit of the world. There is a flood of feeling and a cosmic imagery throughout, but they only form the gorgeous palace within which Thought dwells in full magnificence and mystic dimness. "As the thread of my song," says the poet, "unrolled itself, I saw that my heart was full of mind, that its pulses were of thought, that my feeling had something musical and difficult to measure, and that I accepted the rapture of contemplation just as a lad accepts his sweetheart's kiss. And then I saw that I am the poet, surely a poet among many, a mere soldier of the verse-but always the poet who desires to close within his verse the longings and questions of the universal man and the cares and fanaticisms of the citizen. I may not be a worthy citizen. But it cannot be that I am the poet of myself alone; I am the poet of my age and of my race; and what I hold within me cannot be divided from the world without."

Harvard University, January 8, 1916.

THE LEMAN

BY LEONARD LANSON CLINE

Like some old pagan priestess, Night
Comes sensuously in;

The arc lights bloom in the satin dusk
Like flowers of gridelin;

They fashion for her lithe sweet limbs
A drape of damassin.

She comes to do meet rites to Lust
Wherein all men assist,

For woman is her acolyte

And man her votarist;

She lures them with a mellow song
By Wine, the lutanist.

The burlesque lady sits and paints
In her tattered dressing den;

She paints her cheeks and lips and eyes
To please the burlesque men;

Black for her brows and red for her cheeks
And red for her lips again.

The opera lady, she paints too

Inher room in the great play-house;
She has deft fingers to smooth her face,
The opera men to rouse;

Red for her cheeks and red for her lips
And ebony black for her brows.

The burlesque lady shambles out
On feet of little ease,

But she needs no grace in such a place

And little of art to please;

She goes as bare as ever she dare

And the drunk sots snicker and wheeze.