12 JUNE 1886, Page 22

Gathered in the Gloaming : Poems of Early and Later

Years. By T. Westwood. (Printed at the Chiswick Press.)—Mr. Westwood is an "old hand" at verse-making, and it is, we believe, more than thirty years ago since he published his first volume. He ranks him- self modestly with the small poets, and is probably right in so doing ; but though his facility in the rhythmical art makes him sometimes too diffuse, there are signs in much that he has written of true poetic' impulse. Now and then we are reminded in these pages of other and greater poets, but not unpleaaantly so; and that Mr. Westwood has a distinct note of his own will be evident to every reader of his lyrics and occasional verses. Some of them are old acquaintances. Many a child, we imagine, knows his humorous little poem, "Turncoats," in which two tadpoles decide that the ugliest thing in creation is a

frog, and rejoice that they are so unlike him. Bat the time comes when the smooth and slim tadpoles change their shape and croak, and then they revoke their former judgment :—

"At last, said the younger, 'Of course we. . . . joked That day in the ditch ; for there's no denying, And, in fact its a truth past all replying, That, whether in mere or marsh or bog, The handsomest creature by far i3. . . a frog.' 'To be sure,' said his brother, bobbing and blinking, 'To be sure, I'm just of your way of thinking.' "

"The Land of Long Ago," a poem addressed to children, is written in a strain of tenderness that reminds us of Longfellow ; but it would have been better for compression. From the fault of diffuseness the following tiny "Summer Song in Winter" is free, and it lines fall on the ear pleasantly :—

"What can an old man sing for a young maid ?

tO Summer, Summer, histen on your way)— My wits al -c dull, my pretty things all said—

(0 Summer, Summer, give me help, I pray).

Of flowers of faacy all my wealth is spent— (0 Summer, Summer, bring her blooms of May); My daily thoughts on saddest things are bent—

(0 &tinnier, Summer, blossom, sing, be gay).

Pity an old man, pity this young maid— (0 Summer, Summer, weave her your best crown); For her the suushine—I am in the shade—

(0 Summer, Summer, shower year sunshine down)."

Like many poets whose disposition inclines them to write diffusely, Mr. Westwood is greatly benefited by the constraint of the sonnet. A series of love-poems written in this form, and headed by the rather feeble title of "Rose Leaves," are very beautiful. It is difficult to select where several pieces of almost equal merit claim attention. We have space, however, for one sonnet only, and with a hearty com- mendation of two to be found on pp. 316-317, will transcribe the following :—

"Amongst the sheaves, when I beheld thee first,

That happy harvest-morn a year ago, A thought crept through my heart with sudden glow, That never sunny mountain-top had must A fresher, fairer flower—the very air

Kissed thy dvar face and Eeemecl to feel it fair,

And the serene, deep, summer heaven above

Leaeou down to gaze on thee with locks of love . . .

Oh! child-like woman, that hest kept thine heart So pearled with morning dew—my flower, my flower ! How passing dull my thought was in that hour, Owning thy beinty, yet devoid of art And insight to discern, that by God's grace My life's best angel met me face to face."

If this brief notice of the songs of a life fails, as it needs mast fail, to do them justice, we shall do the author good service if we can induce the reader to turn to tha volume and to pass his own judgment on its worth. And we doubt not that if Gathered in the Gloaming be read with the care and sympathy it deserves, that verdict will be favourable.