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Note contribution of Robert Gordon Menzies in review [pp. 105 – 107] “”A Century of Australian Song” (Part III) [/] “The Bulletin.” [/] During the last quarter of a century Australian literature has been so deeply influenced by the native raciness of the “Bulletin” that one may be forgiven for calling this period “the ‘Bulletin’ Era.” During the closing decade of the nineteenth century the tide of Australian thought began to set strongly towards Federation, and, although this Federation was the result not so much of grave external danger as of reasoned argument, the “Bulletin” found itself the spokesman of a people rapidly becoming conscious of their new and independent nationality. Breezy, irreverent, startingly direct, clever with the rather pathetic cleverness that comes with cynicism, this journal remains thoroughly Australian, and must be honoured as the foster-parent of most of our modern Australian poets. There is rarely an issue of the “Bulletin” in which the purity of motive of some public person is not recklessly rather ignorantly assailed; but there is also rarely an issue in which there does not appear some poem of distinct excellence. The thing is characteristic of us as a race; we are a queer mixture of soft, low speech and vociferous vituperation; a thing all tenderness and arrogance; perhaps, after all, just a nation coming into its strength. [/] Very few names from the rapidly growing list of our modern writers may be mentioned here. “Banjo” Patterson always seems to one the voice of the bushman par excellence; his “Man from Snowy River” shows him the ready Gordon-like rhymster of the galloping hoof, the swift horse, the swift rider; the very odour of the chase. But his eyes see farther than his; his “Clancy” has the eyes of the body and of the soul open to see. [/] And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit [/] plains extended, [/] And at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars. [/] Henry Lawson, the author of some unforgettable vignettes of real life (witness [p. 106] “Jimmy Woodser”) and some stirring poems of prophetic colour like “The Star of Australasia,” in which the poet sees truly enough “the wings of the tempest whirl the mists of our dawn away,” is, or at least was until the advent of the “Sentimental Bloke,” the most popular of our living poets, but one may be given leave to doubt if, after all, his is the kind of work that that the world will not willingly let die. [/] Of the great majority of our modern scribes very little can be said. Roderic Quinn, a regular contributor to the Bulletin has a sure and very gracious very gracious command of the lyric; Will Lawsons’ subjects are chiefly of the sea – his virile poems are full of the rhythmic throb of the engine room. Will H. Ogilvie, now resident in Scotland, bears yet in his mind the pictures of a sunny Australia, and is responsible for one of the most striking tributes yet paid to the men of Anzac. J. B. O’Hara, amidst all the humdrum and toil of a dominie’s lot, has yet found time to weave romance about the “Happy Creeks” of his native State. John Sandes was for some years famous as “Oriel,” of the ”Argus,” and faithfully performed the exacting duties that fall to the lot of the poet laureate of the ”Passing Show.” James Lister Cuthbertson, the author of “Barwon Ballads,” was a sort of local Henry Newbolt, and will always find an appreciative audience amongst public school boys and any others to whom “the forward sweep, the backward leap, that speed the flying craft,” make their insistent appeal. [/] Bernard O’Dowd, assistant Parliamentary draughtsman in Victoria, enjoys dreams assuredly not the offspring of statutes and rules and the stolid practicality of the judicial records. A strong and original thinker, Mr. O’Dowd has won praise from many discerning critics as our greatest living poet. Poet he undoubtedly is; but his expression is apt to lack that artistry and beauty of design which make for popularity. His most ambitious work is “The Bust,” a long poem, rich in classical allusion, depicting the romance which shall grow up around the common things of to-day. As for Australia, [/] Love-lit, her chaos shall become creation, [/] And, dewed with dream, her silence flower in song. [/] Archibald Strong, Acting-Professor of English in the University of Melbourne, has displayed to advantage an extraordinarily cultured and well-stored mind in his translation of Theodore Banville, and his “Sonnets of the Empire.” The later, thought their technical perfection occasionally stifles their vigour of feeling include some sonnets which can only be called magnificent. [/] C. J. Dennis, backed by a wonderfully organised publishing department, lept into an instant fame with his “Songs of a Sentimental Bloke.” His subsequent works have probably done little to add to his reputation, but as a high priest of the language of the “dinkum” Australian, and as the accurate and sympathetic interpreter of the down-town “mooch of life,” its deep, strong feeling rising above its rags and poverty and sordidness, his position is, for the present at least, assured. [/] No review of Australian verse would be complete without some mention of the war poetry of Geoffrey Wall and Leon Gellert. The former, a Wesley College boy, met his death as a pilot in the Royal Flying Corps, and undoubtedly, as his old headmaster, Mr. L. A. Adamson, has observed, shared to a great degree the characteristics of that great genius, Rupert Brooke. Those who have any love for the literature of our old land will find much to inspire them in the all too brief songs of this young gallant who had perforce to lay aside his dream to keep his “rendezvous with death.” [/] Leon Gellert’s “Songs of a Campaign” are the work of a realist in art who fought in the Gallipoli Campaign, and has painted his canvas with the red pictures of the war. He does not display any morbid pleasure in horror; but it is safe to say [p. 107] that nothing more vivid has been written by an Australian soldier. [/] If nothing has been said here of the work of Australian poetesses, of whom there been at least ten of conspicuous merit during this century, it is probably only because the selfish vision of men has rested rather on the poets; because, in the growing vigour of a new land, our ears have sought not so much the songs of love and longing as the full-throated sagas of flood and field, the noise of the tumult and of the shouting. Robert G. Menzies.”