tish traditions in thought and art-limited though these are there is no saying to what heights she might have ascended. Had she even allowed the Scot within her to get the better of the mystical renaissance impulse more frequently, Scotland and herself would have been the gainers. From the point of view of technical accomplishment she is far ahead of any other Scottish poetess and of most of our poets. She is artistic to the fingertips in the matter of words and rhythms, and has written scores of lines which any poet might envy and few in the North can rival. Take these four from a sonnet on The Beauty of Earth"

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And when the peace of jewels holds the sky
Serenely down his emerald-paven way
Exquisite Hesperus goes violing

Through azure dark, some lonely lovely thing."

Again and again she flashes out into a thought as significant as it is fine, and that is of itself one of the infallible signs of the poet.

From the Hours of Fiammetta—

"Peace comes to hearts of whom proud Love has tired; Beyond all dangers dwell the undesired."

There is a whole life story in that. From the same book -all sonnets-comes this profound thought

"The spiritual joy is volatile:

The flesh is faithful to her memories."

From "The Race

" in Rose and Vine we take this fine

variant on a world-old theme

"Go up, go up, ye fierce and proud,
Whom madness never overthrew :

But they that sit with heads down bowed
Had haughtier hearts than you."

"The

Last of these mere snatches I quote this, complete,
Joys of Art," since it shows in brief compass the rich

alien quality of her inspiration and her varied accomplishment under its guiding

"As a dancer dancing in a shower of roses before her

King

(A dreamer dark, the King),

Throws back her head like a wind-loved flower, and makes her cymbals ring

(O'er her lit eyes they ring);

As a fair white dancer strange of heart, and crowned and shod with gold,

My soul exults before the Art, the magian Art of old."

That is painting and song and dance in united glory— a rare thing in our country. Yet Mrs. Taylor attains distinction in all three, separately or combined, and rarely shows even a hint of ineffectiveness. Unfortunately, so far as regards the possibility of appealing to her own people, she belongs to an exotic world of art. She is of the tribe of Rosetti, a follower of what might be called the myrrh and frankincense school, inspired by the Italian renaissance, and her symbolism in speech and imagery is based on Catholic art and knightly observance. This is more or less alien to Scotland, though familiar in England, where the language of mysticism and ritual is native to Anglo-Catholics. Poetry so conceived is splendidly decorative, though the decoration is the natural flowering of life and thought, and is as essential to it as pageantry to the Catholic Church or brilliancy to the court of old Florence or Milan. To the student or lover of poetry it presents no difficulties, for he is familiar with the symbols and will quickly see that there is nothing artificial in Mrs. Taylor's poetry; to the Scot, brought up in what I may without prejudice term the village school of poetry, with an ear only for the coarse or kindly vernacular of the countryside, it will seem as remote as the courts of kings. Yet in the Scottish ballad form, and in dialect, Mrs. Taylor is one of the best of our poets; in her poem "The Princess of Scotland"

she has expressed more nobly than any other I know the pride of race that was ours in the days when poverty dreamed great dreams and was ashamed to beg; her poems of home have the poignancy of ballad-song; and for these reasons it is a matter of regret that she did not give herself more to Scotland and less to Italy. But a poet maun gang his ain gate, and Rachel Annand Taylor has been too proud to go any other. I do not complain for myself, but I regret the loss for others.

POETRY OF 1926.

Of 1926 there is not much to record. There has been the usual output of local verse; and in the leading newspapers we occasionally come across true poems infused with a real modern spirit.

Only four books out of the general run have been published. Penny Wheep by Hugh M'Diarmid, The Chorus of the Newly Dead by Edwin Muir, The Doom of Atlas by William Jeffrey, and The Plumes of Time by Lewis Spence. Of The Doom of Atlas I shall say little, since I cannot commend it unreservedly, and this is not the place for a critical review. Mr. Jeffrey has a true poetic gift, but even at his best a wavering hand betrays him. He has imaginative vision, aspires to imaginative flight, and frequently maintains it for a space; one never knows, however, when his wing will fail him. The reason seems to be that he has not yet found his proper medium. He would be both splendid and simple, but only genius can be the latter. His work is starred with fine things, and all his longer poems save one reveal a steadily developing art. Yet it is in a swifter measure, in "Andromeda " in The Wise Men Come to Town, that he comes nearest to real poetic felicity. His poetry in general is full of promise, but his strength is handcuffed to a weakness beyond my understanding. It should not be there, but it is; and only experience can free him.

HUGH M'DIARMID.

Of Hugh M'Diarmid-otherwise C. M. Grieve-I have little to add to what I said last year, but to that I adhere. Mr. Grieve works effectively in his medium of a Scots vocabulary drawn from all quarters. He has proved it right for himself by his efficiency with it, but I feel that any other would make it ridiculous. I know that if I were to try it myself—and it could easily be done with Jamieson at hand-I should be conscious I was merely imitating M'Diarmid. The medium is his by right of first use, and all that matters now is the use he will make of it. Penny Wheep is an answer in part, but only in part. Its lyrical element is, as was the case with Sangschaw, rich in poetical surprise. In his strongest poem, "Gairmscoile," Mr. M'Diarmid says"It's soon', no' sense, that faddoms the herts o' men." I don't believe it, nor does he or he would not supply a glossary! I don't believe it, for again and again in his poems it is the manner in which the sound reinforces the sense that gives me delight. Take "Somersault," which I take to be a picture of the earth as seen by an observer stationary in space watching the whirling globe. That is a simple prose statement of the facts. listen

Now

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Now, even the poet himself will not have the nerveor the humility-to tell me that that's " a' soon'." No, no: Breengin'," the "wecht o' hills," "wallopin',' the whummlin' glowerin' sea," and the whud are as vivid representations of visible and audible fact as the downrush of the swine and the birth of the new farrow are of the down plunge and emerging of the globe. That the words chosen have an intrinsic sound-value goes without saying: but the ring of a word gives it no poetic value unless there is concrete significance implicit in the sound. All Mr. M'Diarmid's Scots poetry is based on the racial truth of this. One striking couplet of his own proves it, where he speaks of old Scots words—

"Coorse words that shamble thro' oor minds like stots, Syne turn on's muckle een wi' doonsin' emerauds lit."

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Dazzling emeralds "! Of what, if not thought? I have lingered on this because I would not have a school of Scots poets grow up who roamed through Jamieson rounding up" herds o' heich-skeich monsters" of words that were but crazy sound and fury, signifying nothing. Those fortunate ones who liked Sangschaw will find in Penny Wheep their pleasure renewed. Naming but a few, I think "Wild Roses "most beautiful. The open

ing verse of itself is of a sort that makes me delightedly

content

"Wi' sae mony wild roses

Dancin' and daffin',

It looks as tho' a'

The countryside's laffin'."

"Feery-o'-the

I admit I would have preferred "lachin'" there, even if it didn't rhyme, but I pass that. Feet" and "Thunderstorm " are in a bucolic vein of tragi-comedy, with something ludicrous yet imaginative behind, which runs through all the poet's work and gives it that quality perceived in the comic mask in stage sym