Lancelot, a Poem
by . New York: Thomas Seltzer, 1920. 12mo, vi-f 184 pp. $1.75.
THERE are various lights in which this narrative poem of Mr. Robinson’s may be regarded. It is possible to relate it to the fashion which Sir Harry Johnston exemplifies in fiction. It is possible to read it with Malory and Tennyson constantly in mind. Or again, it may be looked upon as the latest step in the development of an American poet of marked individuality and power, and compared with his previous productions. The publishers of the book would manifestly have its ‘jacket’-led readers find in it a ‘poetical interpretation of the questions and issues that have agitated us during the war and since the cessation of the war.’
It is even possible that other avenues of approach to the book might be devised. In the narrow precincts of this notice, it is enough to look at the poem itself as a work of art. Charged as it is with the doom of kings, provoking the critical reader to all manner of comparisons with its antecedents in literature, its real value and interest are intrinsic in its own poetic beauty. It tells a dramatic story of the love of Lancelot and Guinevere, his rescue of the Queen from the death at the stake to which Arthur had condemned her, the fighting that followed them to Joyous Gard, her return to Camelot, the final overthrow and death of Arthur, the final meeting of the lovers in the nunnery of Almesbury, when the Queen bade him go, with her broken
I think we must have lived in our one world
All that earth had for us;
All that earth had for us;
and departing,
He crushed her cold white hands and saw them falling
Away from him like flowers into a grave.
Away from him like flowers into a grave.
Then out into the darkness he rode, seeking and finding ‘the Light’ which he would have found long before but for her who came between him and the Gleam that always beckoned.
The verso has a post-Victorian cadence of freedom which marks it as of a later day than the Idylls. But the total impression of the poem is that it carries on the true tradition of noble and beautiful English poetry. In a day that is given to the metrical following of so many strange gods, this of itself is an occasion for gratitude. Mr. Robinson is one of the American poets who, in that earlier time when the writing of printable verse was not a widespread accomplishment, would have taken a conspicuous place in our literature. His work is notable in any period for its distinction and beauty, and this new specimen of it but fortifies his rank among the first of living American poets. M. H.