  Wordsworth, writing a sonnet, having for its subject the sonnet-form, said:— “To me, In sundry moods, ’twas pastime to be bound Within the sonnet’s scanty plot of ground;” and all those who have essayed the task of composing in this particular form will admit that Wordsworth’s definition—“scanty plot of ground”—characterises the sonnet’s limitations precisely. As will be observed in the following pages, Mr. Cousins not only excels as a sonneteer; but in “The Legend of the Blemished King” he performs the remarkable feat of producing a poem of classical character, containing forty-eight stanzas, cast perfectly in the no less difficult mould known as the Spenserian stanza—eight heroic lines, followed by an Alexandrine, rhyming thus:—1, 3; 2, 4, 5, 7; 6, 8, 9. The subject, however more than the technique, is remarkable. It will have an especial attraction for all who are interested in the ancient literature of Ireland; and, indeed it should be of universal interest, because of the fact that this story of Fergus bears a strong resemblance to the Scriptural narrative of Eden and the Fall of Man. It is a kind of allegory common to all ancient races, containing in its heart an unobtruded moral, wrapped in dramatic incident and decorated with charming pictures of land and sea. It is, in short, what Fiona M’Leod would call a “legendary morality.” The other poems are equally admirable; and, indeed, however considered, I think that this book should prove a valuable addition to the best literary products of Ireland. M. J. K. Deirdre. Illan, what King was he dwelt here of yore? Illan. Fergus, the son of Leide Lithe-o’-limb, Ere yet he reigned at Eman, did dwell here. Deirdre. What, Fergus Wry-mouth? I have heard of him, And how he came by his ill-favoured name. Methinks I see him when he rose again From combat with the monster, and his face, That had that blemish till love wiped it off, Serene and ample-featured like a King. Illan. Not love but anger, made him fight the beast. Deirdre. No, no, I will not have it anger. Love Prompts every deed heroic. ’Tis the fault Of him who did compose the tale at first, Not to have shown ’twas love unblemished him. . . . . . . Fergus. All Erin, shore to shore, shall ring with it And poets in the ages yet to come Make tales of wonder of it for the world. “Deirdre.”—Ferguson The Legend of the Blemished King. |
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