Poems. By Edward G. A. Holmes. (Henry S. King and
Co.)—We do not think the worse either of the promise or the performance of Mr. Holmes's work that it manifests the influence of poets of the day,—that
the' Fir Wood" and "The Message" remind us strongly of Mr. Matthew Arnold, and that "God has Taken Him" bears a considerable resem- blance to "In Memoriam." Academical culture naturally inclines to the study of great models, a course which is probably as profitable, on the whole, in poetry, as it is beyond question in the other arts. The ex- uberance and fluency of Mr. Holmes's style threaten a more serious danger to his ultimate excellence. He handles questions that concern the bases of faith and morals, and finds in his verse only too facile an instrument for expressing his philosophy. Hence no inconsiderable part of what he writes is versified discourse, rather than poetry. The reflective faculty overpowers the artistic. We have, let it be thankfully acknowledged, sound teaching, often elevated thought, but we miss beauty. We may note the poem entitled "Free thinking" as an - example of this defect. Such a stanza as,— " 'Oh ! but we want something definite '—want it forsooth;'-. What, shall our very infirmities guide us aright?
Say, is our need and our weakness the standard of truth? Say, is the 111m of our blindness the measure of light?"
satisfies no poetical canons of taste. "To Love," on the other hand, though full of meaning, and with a very definite lesson to teach, is really beautiful. We wish that it were not too long to be quoted as a whole, for it is, perhaps, the happiest and most original of Mr. Holmes's efforts. We must be content with mentioning "The Message," a poem full of that genuine affection which the Thames, more, perhaps, than any other river, has had the power to inspire, as another poem of special excellence ; and to quote one of the four sonnets on "The Coast of Clare ":—
"FROM THE OLTIMS BALTIRD.
"Across the heaving ocean's billowy flow, Lie paths of gold that deepen into red:
The west is bright: black storm-clouds overhead
Give a strange sweetness to the evening glow.
The swell of the Atlantic breaks below, • With thunderous resonance long lines of white Tell where the iron coast beats back the might
Of stormy seas:—dark headlands fringed with snow— From blue Loophead to Arran's sunken strand—
Deep gloomy precipice-encircled bays, Sheer craggy islets, flats of whitened sand, Are all scarce dimmed by veils of purpling haze: While somewhere in the gory of the west Lie the enchanted islands of the blest."
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