seems a clear echo, rather than a new song. It is good, but it is
reminiscent of his reading, not merely of Mr. Kipling, but of poetry
in general. In _The Land God Forgot_, a fine poem, beginning

The lonely sunsets flare forlorn
Down valleys dreadly desolate;
The lordly mountains soar in scorn
As still as death, as stern as fate,

the opening line infallibly brings to mind Henley's

Where forlorn sunsets flare and fade.

The poetry of Mr. Service has the merits and the faults of the "red
blood" school in fiction, illustrated by the late Jack London and the
lively Rex Beach. It is not the highest form of art. It insists on
being heard, but it smells of mortality. You cannot give permanence to
a book by printing it in italic type.

It is indeed difficult to express in pure artistic form great
primitive experiences, even with long years of intimate first-hand
knowledge. No one doubts Mr. Service's accuracy or sincerity. But many
men have had abundance of material, rich and new, only to find it
unmanageable. Bret Harte, Mark Twain, Rudyard Kipling succeeded where
thousands have failed. Think of the possibilities of Australia! And
from that vast region only one great artist has spoken--Percy
Grainger.