The second is the Thirty-fifth Ode of the First Book

"O Diva, gratum quæ regis Antium," &c.

where the same metre is thus differently rendered :

"Goddess, who o'er thine own loved Antium reignest,
Potent alike to raise aloft the mortal

From life's last mean degree,

Or change his haughtiest triumphs into graves;—

"To thee the earth's poor tiller prays imploring-
To thee, Queen-lady of the deeps, whoever

Cuts with Bithynian keel

A passing furrow in Carpathian seas.

"Thee Dacian rude-thee Scythia's vagrant nomad--
Thee states and races-thee Rome's haughty children—
Thee purple tyrants dread,

And the pale mothers of Barbarian Kings," &c.

Did space permit we should like to quote further examples of Lord Lytton's metrical skill. He will not persuade all his readers that he has the truth, and the whole truth on his side, but most will admit that his unrhymed verse has a delicate charm for the ear, and retains a characteristic of the original which rhymed verse surrenders. The book is one of the very pleasantest that we have met with, and we advise any lover of literature desirous of a genial introduction to Horace to take Lord Lytton for his guide.

RECENT POETRY.

Delhi, and other Poems. By Charles Arthur Kelly, M.A. London: Longmans. 1871.

Eros Agonistes. By E. B. D. London: Henry S. King and Co. 1872.

Cæsar in Britain: a Poem in Fire Cantos. By Thomas Kentish. London: Pickering.

The Legends of Saint Patrick. By Aubrey de Vere. London: Henry S. King and Co. 1872.

The Knight of Intercession, and other Poems. By S. J. Stone, M.A. Rivingtons: London, Oxford, Cambridge.

1872.

Songs from the Woodlands, and other Poems By Benjamin Gough. London: S. W. Partridge and Co.

FROM the crowd of minor poets claiming notice, we select a few who do not seem, either by their merit or demerit, to demand any very lengthened criticism. If an association could be formed, with reasonable chance of success, for the suppression of all but the best poetry, we would gladly join it; but there are causes at work to make such an undertaking hopeless. The economic law of demand

and supply prevails here in an inverted order; the supply creates the
demand. There is no falling off in the number of persons who can
write what will fairly pass for verse, so that if poetry be not very
plentiful, at least good imitation abounds. Whether or not, the
majority of these writers believe in their own originality, we cannot
say; but it is certain that the greater portion of the numerous verse
put forth betrays its origin in the most innocent manner.
We can
tell at once whether we are indebted to Mr. Tennyson or Mr. Brown-
ing, and even find a melancholy pleasure in tracing the minutiae of
unconscious imitation. The first volume above-named, that of Mr.
Kelly, is a fair specimen of a book of poems owing its origin to
literary, as distinguished from poetic, feeling. He writes like a well-
read man, with considerable power of appreciation; but his literary
models absolutely tyrannise over him. In his principal poem,
Delhi, he uses the heroic couplet to the precise eighteenth century
tune, the same smooth monotony of versification, and familiar
balance of phrase and epithet.

"Then the stern Saxon from a stranger land,
Fire in his eyes, and conquest in his hand.
Weep for the glorious dead by whom were wrought
Those feats of war, those master-works of thought.
Mourn for the men of might-how few survive

Who rule like Hastings, or who fight like Clive!"

In another poem, Marathon, our recollection of Macaulay's Lays is most unwisely challenged thus:

"At break of day, the people

Have met in stern debate,

Short space had they for counsel,

For war was at the gate.

And they have marshalled forth their host,

And chosen generals ten,

All skilled to sway on the battle-day

The rush of armèd men."

The martial vigour, which is the very life-breath of such a poem is now and again sadly let down by a feeble line like the following:

"Callimachus the Archon

Was chieftain of the ten,

And he hath called his colleagues,
Those great and earnest men."

We give a verse or two of Mr. Kelly in his Tennysonian vein, from a poem in memory of Sir James Outram :—

"O day of darkness and of light,

O throbbing chords of joy and pain!
The bridal of a fair-haired Dane,
The death-hour of a noble Knight.

"When blushing Love, in holy trust,
On happy hearts her signet placed,
Not far away Death's finger traced
'Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.'

"When the rich-robed processions sweep
In solemn state up Windsor's aisle,
And rolling organs shake the pile,
Our Indian Bayard falls asleep.

*

"So Death and Love their arms entwine,
And chant one grand funereal song,
Uphold the right, war down the wrong,

And make the mortal more divine.'”

Eros Agonistes not merely reminds us of Tennyson, but plainly owes its form and general mode of treatment, if not its very origin, to In Memoriam. A lost love supplies the place of the dead friend, and then, precisely after the manner of the great model, the author leads his grief along the various stages of a soul's pilgrimage, through doubt and bitterness, to submissive trust. The comparison invited proves disastrous. There is much graceful, tender thought, and better than average quality of verse, but the reader is haunted by echoes of another poem, and that is fatal. It cannot be otherwise; witness the following:

"Once more the sacred season draweth near

When first we met. The day that of all days
And anniversaries which the circling year
Presents, most piercing memories shall raise.

*

"Ah, yet again, as once in that old hall,

On wild gray mornings when the wind is loud,
And weary music, in its rise and fall,

Awakes the past, I see those cedars bowed.
And, 'mid the fierce gusts' distant gathering roar,
That light footfall upon the creaking stair
Makes my heart leap.

Cæsar in Britain, though a poem in five cantos, may safely be dismissed in about five lines, and they shall be the author's own:

"However, if I rightly guess,

Doubt need not long the mind possess;
But little lapse of time will show,
And we the certainty shall know.
For, hearken to the approaching tramp
Of hurrying steeds, with heavy stamp!
And louder still, and still more near!
And, see! look yonder southward! where
The hill, in rapid slope, descends,
And with the plain its verdure blends.
They come they come! distinct in sight,
One after one; I count them; five
In number; which will first arrive?"

The freest use of notes of exclamation cannot give life to lines so utterly prosaic and dead.

The next volume on our list is of a higher order than any yet mentioned. Mr. de Vere has struck into that early circle of legends clustering round the great name of St. Patrick, which has been trodden by few except the most ardent explorers of the poetic antiquities of Ireland. "The early legends of St. Patrick are at once the more authentic and the nobler. Not a few have a character of the sublime; many are pathetic; some have a profound meaning under a strange disguise; but their predominant character is their brightness and gladsomeness. A large tract of Irish history is dark: but the time of St. Patrick, and the three centuries which succeeded it, were her time of joy." There is, so far as we have observed, a certain monotony in these legends of the Saints (compare, for example, Bede's Lives of St. Cuthbert and St. Felix with the Legends of St. Patrick); but no sturdiness of Protestant principles shall lead us to deny to them both poetic and religious charm. To the author, we can plainly see that these idylls of the Saint have been a labour of love. We feel inclined to suggest that, perhaps a rougher, more archaic verse would have better suited the subject and spirit of the legends. Once or twice a ballad-metre is effectively employed; for the rest, it is smooth, melodious blank verse.

The Knight of Intercession, &c., is the work of Mr. Stone, Vicar of St. Paul's, Haggerston, the author of the Thanksgiving Hymn lately sung at St. Paul's, and of one or two of the best hymns in the Appendix to Hymns, Ancient and Modern. This will, perhaps, sufficiently indicate the school to which Mr. Stone belongs. It is the school which has for some time past led the way in the earnest and enterprising use of religious song, a matter deserving the attention of Churches too much inclined to rest upon their traditions. The majority of the pieces included in this volume are directly religious in their subject; all are thoroughly so in their spirit. There is just the tinge of distinctive High Church doctrine that we might expect; but it would be a grudging and unworthy criticism that could see in Mr. Stone's poems nothing but the mannerism of a school. There is much more, chaste and graceful, if not vigorous, imagination, and keen sensibility to what is beautiful in nature, and in the character and deeds of men. Let us confess that it is pleasant to us to read thoughtful and tender poems that derive a main charm from their most devout and reverent regard for our Lord. This is not so common but that we may thus acknowledge it. The following is one of a short series of Easter sonnets :

"He said unto her, 'Mary.' With one cry,
And in one moment, she was at His feet.
Oh, to her desolate thirsting soul how sweet
The calling! as to those in days gone by
His voice on the dark waters, 'It is I.'
O, great good Shepherd! so He came to meet

The sheep that cried to find Him-so to greet
Her for whose need He was unseen so nigh.
He knows His sheep, and calls them all by name;
They hear not others, but His voice they know :
She heard and knew the calling sweet and low,
And to His feet in reverent rapture came.
O, my great Master! thus and evermore

Thee would I seek and find, love and adore."

Of Mr. Gough's Songs from the Woodlands, we can speak favourably as regards both their poetical and their religious tone, but any other praise we hardly know how to give, unless accompanied and qualified by something very much the reverse. They are the production of a man of genial, kindly nature, rejoicing much in the open-air mercies of life, and ready to break into verse upon-let us say—the slightest provocation. The majority of the songs have not theme enough. The thought does not progress. No sentiment or reflection is developed, and after a few stanzas of fluent, tripping, graceful verse, we leave off exactly where we began. A noticeable peculiarity is the number of verses that are short of predicate; with much preparation nothing is said; e.g.

"Down in the coppice,

When the woodlark sings,

Rising and descending

With half-opened wings;

Cheery as the sunshine,
Flying to and fro,
Warbling forth wild notes
With a joyous glow."

Mr. Gough evidently has great facility in composition of this kind, but its luxuriance needs to be pruned and brought into stricter subjection to grammatical and logical rules. What, for instance, does this mean?

"Comes Spring's coronation
In her crown of flowers?"

How does a coronation come in a crown? But we will not lengthen the ungrateful task of finding fault. We cannot call Mr. Gough's songs poetry in any very high sense of the word, but there is a good deal of not inharmonious verse which will be sufficiently commended tesome readers by its quality of pious cheerfulness.

Anster Fair. By William Tennant, LL.D. With Memoir and Notes. Edinburgh: John Ross and Co. 1871. THIS is a new edition of a poem which has long been held in good repute in Scotland, though in England it is still little known. The author, William Tennant, who was born at Anstruther in 1784, and died at Dollar in 1848, was one of that royal brotherhood of men, of whom it is the glory of Scotland to have produced so many, who plod through all difficulties and discouragements to ultimate fame