Homepage
Login
Profile
BookClubs
dmBox
Read Ebook: Poet-Lore: A Quarterly Magazine of Letters. April May June 1900 by Various
Font size:
Background color:
Text color:
Add to tbrJar First Page Next Page
Ebook has 370 lines and 59747 words, and 8 pages
Translator: Helen Tracy Porter
POET-LORE
A QUARTERLY MAGAZINE OF LETTERS
SECOND NUMBER.
April, May, June, 1900.
POETRY AND FICTION.
THE THREE HERON'S FEATHERS. Hermann Sudermann
MARAH OF SHADOWTOWN. Verses. Anne Throop
DIES IRAE. Verses. William Mountain
APPRECIATIONS AND ESSAYS.
GEORGE MEREDITH ON THE SOURCE OF DESTINY. Emily G. Hooker
THE TRAGEDY OF OPHELIA. David A. McKnight
A DEFENCE OF BROWNING'S LATER WORK. Helen A. Clarke
SCHOOL OF LITERATURE.
REVIEWS.
'Songs from the Ghetto' and 'A Vision of Hellas.' Harriott S. Olive.--Col. Higginson's 'Contemporaries' and Mrs. Howe's 'Reminiscences.' Helen Tracy Porter.
LIFE AND LETTERS.
The Modern Unrest in Nations, Markets and Minds.--Its Portent.--Goethe's Iphigenia at Harvard. H. S. O.--Is Browning a Legitimate Member of the Victorian School? Mary M. Cohen.--Etc.
BOSTON: Published by POET-LORE CO., 16 Ashburton Place. London: Gay and Bird, 22 Bedford St., Strand.
Entered at the Boston, Mass., Post-Office as Second-Class Mail Matter
POET-LORE
A QUARTERLY MAGAZINE OF LETTERS
Devoted to Appreciation of the Poets and Comparative Literature. Its object is to bring Life and Letters into closer touch with each other, and, accordingly, its work is carried on in a new spirit: it considers literature as an exponent of human evolution rather than as a finished product, and aims to study life and the progress of ideals in letters.
EDITORS:
CHARLOTTE PORTER and HELEN A. CLARKE
HONORARY ASSOCIATE EDITORS
W. J. ROLFE, Litt.D., Cambridge, Mass. WILLIAM O. KINGSLAND, London, England. HIRAM CORSON, LL.D., Prof, of English Literature, Cornell University, Ithaca, N.Y.
POET-LORE COMPANY, 16 Ashburton Place, Boston.
YEARLY SUBSCRIPTION, .50
EACH QUARTERLY NUMBER, 65 cents
Poet-lore is published quarterly, the New Year Number for January, February, and March; the Spring Number for April, May, and June; the Summer Number for July, August, and September; the Autumn Number for October, November, and December.
Poet-lore from January, 1889 to August-September, 1896, inclusive, was published monthly except in July and August, a Double Summer Number, however, being issued in June for June and July, and a Double Autumn Number in September for August and September. Subscription price for yearly parts same as for New Series, .50. Single numbers, 25 cents; Double numbers, 50 cents.
POET-LORE COMPANY, 16 Ashburton Place, Boston.
POET-LORE
THE THREE HERON'S FEATHERS.
BY HERMANN SUDERMANN.
Characters.
The Queen of Samland. Sk?ll, The young Prince, her son. Ottar, > The Duke's men. Anna Goldhair, her attendant. Gylf, / C?lestin, her Major-domo. The Burial-wife. The Chancellor. Miklas, a peasant. Widwolf, Duke of Gotland. An old fisherman, a page, Prince Witte. councillors, men and women of the Hans Lorbass, his servant. Queen, the Duke's men, the people.
Behind a juniper bush, On a night in July warm and red, Was my poor mother of me brought to bed . And knew not how.
Behind a juniper bush, Between cock's crow and morning red, I struck in drink my father dead, . And knew not who.
Behind a juniper bush, When all the vermin have had their bite, I'll stretch myself out and give up the fight . Still I know not when.
Yet one thing I know: anywhere hereabouts, a mile-stone or a cross-roads will do very well some day; I do not need a juniper bush. Let us say a garden hedge, that is a pleasant spot. If some day it should come into my head to lie down beneath one, in the tall grass, nearby a grave, and quietly turn my back on this dry, burnt-out old world, who--a plague upon him--would have aught to say against it? Here I sit and munch my crusts, and hold carouse--on water; here I stand and dig graves, a free-will servant to weakness. I dig the graves of the unnamed, unknown, when icy waves toss them rotting on the shore, tangled in slimy sea-weed. Once all my thoughts were wont to follow on the foeman's path, to cleave him through with my blithely swinging sword, to carve my path straight through the solid rock; yet now I stand here and smile submission at a woman. But I bide my time until my master comes again knocking to set me free from my graveyard prison and breathe new life into my frame. Him at whose side I once stood guardian-like with fiercest zeal, him will I serve again with all my love and life, and follow like a dog.... Like a dog, yes, but like a master, too. For it is strength alone that wins the day at last, in all the brave deeds done upon this earth. And only he who laughs can win. The victory is never to the weakling whiner, nor to the man whose rage can master him; as little does it crown the man whose mind is woman-ruled; but less than these and least of all will it bless him who dreams away his life. For that I stole and sweated to secure,--his future good,--for that I sit now fixed firm within his soul,--I his servant and avenger! Here comes the old one. Never yet have I owned myself conquered by any soul on earth.... And yet--when she comes peering into my affairs, I feel as though I might become--I don't know what! I begin to know what strength is in sweet words; I feel a readiness for any sort of bout; my spirits swell to bursting roisteringness,--and yet I have not the shadow of a cause for any such ideas.
Scene 2.
King . Duke Widwolf!
King . What then?
The King . The fire dies down? Then thou canst strive to brighten it, as thou hast the flames of my will.... Too late! Naught but this lazy, luke-warm heap of sodden ashes. What is to be done now?--The torch, a-flicker there! Though thy dim mocking glimmer has often frightened me in the forest it smiles alluringly at me now. And look, above, the parchments which so long have made my life a hell--now I know how to use you! Out of the paper sorrows of my country I will kindle for myself a glad new morning,--a new sun shall rise for me in their light! And now!
Scene 1.
Scene 2.
MARAH OF SHADOWTOWN.
The days pass by in Shadowtown Wearily, wearily;-- And Bitter-Sweet Marah of Shadowtown Sighs drearily, drearily.
"Mother, tell him to come to me While my hair is gold and beautiful And my lips and eyes are young While the songs that are welling up in my heart May still be sung.
Add to tbrJar First Page Next Page