THE SCOTSMAN

Edinburgh, Midlothian, Scotland

13 July 1899

(PAGE 2)

NEW BOOKS.

POETRY.

Jephthah, and Other Mysteries, Lyrical and Dramatic. By Aleister Crowley. London: Kegan Paul & Co.

It is not for nothing that the dedication of this volume is "To Algernon Charles Swinburne;" for its author is a poet of the same way of thinking as that singer, and he has a command of language and rhythm akin to his. He is impassioned in the cause of Freedom, and he calls upon Mr. Swinburne to teach him how to sing its praises. "Yea," he says:—

"Yea, with thy whirling clouds of fiery light

Involve my music, gyring fuller and faster!

When his dislikes are aroused, too, he thunders forth volleys of invective with a tumultuousness comparable only to that with which Mr. Swinburne used to assail emperors and tyrants. Mr. Crowley's most offensive remarks, however, are directed against the author of the phrase, "I am not a gentleman, and I have no friends." Here are some of the observations in question:—

Self-damned, the leprous moisture of thy veins

Sickens the sunshine, and thine haggard eyes,

Bleared with their own corrupting infamics

Glare through the charnel-house of earthly pains,

Horrible as already in hell."

So much may be quoted with a view of exhibiting the book's poetical affinities. Its chief piece is a tragedy on the classic model of ancient Greece and the Scriptural subject of that Judge of Israel who had one fair daughter, "the which he loved passing well." It is a work of no small power, the choral lyrics reaching remarkable heights, and more than compensating for the rather obscure theology with which the piece as a whole is clouded. Then there is a play in prose, which, ineffective as it is, emphasises the fact that this writer's most congenial sphere is that of the lyric. There are many fine sonnets and pieces like odes in the volume, poems that carry one on by their rush of impetuous feeling and musical language, and leave an impression of beauty, but which break down sadly on analysis. The thought is wordy, never deep or simple, and the verse turns out to be a sort of serpentine dance with coloured lights of feeling thrown on from the outside. It is not without beauty of the sacred fire. The book will find its best pleased readers among those who subscribe to the doctrine of "art for art." It shows, for the rest, that its author has a genuine lyrical gift and a growing power, and it will be read with interest by every lover of poetry who takes it up.