But Mr. Carman is not only a Canadian, he is also a Briton; and evidence of this is his _Ode on the Coronation_, written on the occasion of the crowning of King Edward VII in 1902. This poem--the very existence of which is hardly known among us--ought to be put in the hands of every child and youth who speaks the English tongue, for no other, I dare maintain--nothing by Kipling, or Newbolt, or any other of our so-called "Imperial singers"--expresses more truly and more movingly the deep feeling of love and reverence which the very thought of England evokes in every son of hers, even though it may never have been his to see her white cliffs rise or to tread her storied ground:
O England, little mother by the sleepless Northern tide, Having bred so many nations to devotion, trust, and pride, Very tenderly we turn With welling hearts that yearn Still to love you and defend you,--let the sons of men discern Wherein your right and title, might and majesty, reside.
In concluding this, I greatly fear, lamentably inadequate study, I come to the collection which follows, and which, as intimated above, represents the work of Mr. Carman's latest period. I must say at once that, while I yield to no one in admiration for _Low Tide_ and the other books of that period, or for the work of the second period, as represented by the _Songs from Vagabondia_ volumes, I have no hesitation in declaring that I regard the poet's work of the past few years with even higher admiration. It may not possess the force and vigor of the work which preceded it; but anything seemingly missing in that respect is more than made up for me by increased beauty and clarity of expression. The mysticism--verging, or more than verging, at times on symbolism--which marked his earlier poems, and which hung, as it were, as a veil between them and the reader, has gone, and the poet's thought or theme now lies clearly before us as in a mirror. What--to take a verse from the following pages at random--could be more pellucid, more crystal clear in expression--what indeed, could come closer to that achieving of the impossible at which every real poet must aim--than this from "In Gold Lacquer" (page 12)?
Gold are the great trees overhead, And gold the leaf-strewn grass, As though a cloth of gold were spread To let a seraph pass. And where the pageant should go by, Meadow and wood and stream, The world is all of lacquered gold, Expectant as a dream.