Danger. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
London, New York: Neely, c 1892, 1897.
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Most of Ella Wheeler Wilcox's lines are sounds from the
unconscious rather than reflection's echoes. Spiritism might give the key
to the psychic phenomenon of the poet's girlhood. At that period,
in spite of her incomplete training, or perhaps, thanks to the absence
of many traditional fetters--literary and ethical--a little star suddenly
appeared and radiated its sympathetic light With no wordly experience,
probably on account of her very innocence, a simple, modest, ingenuous
lass moved numberless readers with hymns of three-fold love:
"The brain's response, the warm blood's rapturous glow,
The soul's sweet language . . . ."
Material comforts for a mother must be won quickly, and verse after verse flies into editors' mail. Many go to waste-baskets, some are returned, others printed uncredited, and a few bring back a little money to the home that shelters beloved ones. As many as ten poems a day at times go forth from the Western hamlet to edify the great world beyond and to
add another leaf to the poet's laurel crown.
So prolific a pen occasionally grows impatient at mechanical trifles. It is no wonder that pedantic critics discover flaws in some of her verses--errors of which they would be incapable because they cannot write except about other's writings--like gnats that do not create, nurture nor admire flowers, yet gnaw at their tender petals.
These censors forget that the mode of expressing an idea is less important than the idea itself. An imperfect technique would certainly be undesirable; but a perfect one, with nothing more, is useless in the race for literary spurs. Rhetorical ability is attainable by all, save idiots. In fact, our compulsory education has forced every citizen to write, or to imagine he could write, but it has not added one atom of genius to our nation. Perfection of expression is valuable only when the thoughts thus treated are judicious and appropriate. Not even all this, however, could gain entree into the Court of Letters.
When one has nothing new to say, or cannot make his own bouquet of other men's roses, he is a pleb, not a prince.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox has evoked harmonies from every string of the human harp. Out of the mysterious recesses of her spirit, with a well garnished mind, excited by the ardor of a blood of Saxon origin, yet Latin in warmth, she has fascinatingly sung the whole gamut of life's tones.
The danger of war, with its havoc of life,"SWEET DANGER"
The warrior returns from the captured fort,
The mariner sails to a peaceful port;
The wild beast quails 'neath the strong man's eye,
The avalanche passes the traveler by--
But who can rescue from passion's pyre
The hearts that were offered to feed its fire?
Ah! he who emerges from that fierce flame
Is scarred with sorrow or blackened with shame.
Battle and billow, and beast of prey,
They only threaten the mortal clay;
The soul unfettered can take to wing,
But the danger of love is another thing.
Once under the tyrant Passion's control,
He crushes body, and heart, and soul.
An hour of rapture, an age of despair,
Ah! these are the trophies of love's warfare.
And yet forever, since time began,
Has man dared woman and woman lured man
To that sweet danger that lurks and lies
In the bloodless battle of eyes with eyes;
That reckless danger, as vast as sweet,
Whose bitter ending is joy's defeat.
Ah! thus forever, while time shall last,
On passion's altar must hearts be cast!
Contents:ELLA WHEELER WILCOX