THREE VOLUMES OF VERSE.* THERE is no lack of material

in the subject which Mr. Lewis Morris has chosen for his latest effort. The Acta Sanctorum furnish it in an abundance that is only too copious ; and though there is much that is grotesque, and something that we might even call revolting amongst it, there are also many noble and beautiful themes on which the highest gifts of the poet may be worthily exercised. And when we also add the stories of those uncanonised saints who have adorned Churches that do not claim the right of conferring spiritual degrees, the subject seems to assume proportions that transcend all mortal powers. Something of this impression is left on us after a perusal, not by any means unsympathetic, of Mr. Morris's volume. On some of his earlier work we have bestowed no stinted praise ; but we cannot help thinking that

• :1.) A Vision of Saints. By Lewis Morris. London Kogan Paul, Trench, and Co. 1890.--(2 ) A Heret.e, and other Poems. By Walter 0. Smith. Glas- gow: James MacLehose and Co. 1991.—(3.1 Poems, Ballads, and Bueolies, By R. D. Rawnsley. M.A. London: Macmillan and Co. 1890.

the task of giving to the world a new Paradiso, in which even the genius of Dante did not attain its chief success, has proved too bard for him. His plan is defective ; the figures are not properly grouped. Even at the risk of seeming to imitate the "Circles" of the great Florentine's poem, some arrangement should have been attempted. As it is, the " Vision" is a succession of legends or stories versified with more or less skill, with occasional interpositions of the poet in the character of a dramatic chorus. But some of the separate pictures are fine. The earlier part of " S. Elizabeth of Hun- gary " is particularly good ; the conclusion is less satisfactory. After all, Conrad the priest probably only gives expression to the ascetic aspirations of the widowed Queen. The problem of this strange life is perhaps too perplexed a theme for art. " S. Francis of Assisi" is a fine poem throughout. One of the most loveable characteristics of the saint is admirably given, —his love for the lower orders of creation :—

"Likewise, because for faithful souls the lot

Of God's dumb creatures presses with a weight Of wonder whence they come, and for what end, These humble helpers of our race, to whom Their master is as God, or how the doom Of nothingness at last awaits their good And honourable service; and because, Loving his Lord, he loved all creatures too His hand had fashioned ; worm and creeping thing Upon his path he crushed not, but would set In safety ; and the joyous songs of birds, The soaring lark, the passionate nightingale, He knew for hymns of praise, and oft would join

His jubilant voice with theirs. Around his feet,

As in the fields he walked, the innocent lambs Would gambol, and the timid fur-clad things Nestled within his bosom, fearing not His gentle hand. But most of all the birds Be loved, the swift-winged messengers who pass 'Twixt earth and Heaven, and seem as if they hear A double nature, close in brotherhood With all he loved; and when he heard their song, Pierced through with joy and utter thankfulness, He with alternate praise would join with them, And once, with soaring antiphons at eve, Vied with a nightingale, till the brief night Was well-nigh spent, and he could sing no more, Since his voice failed him. And he bade the blithe Cicale chirping in the acacia thus, Sing, sisters ; praise the Lord ; ' and hearing him, They shrilled their answering song, and he was glad."

"Elizabeth Fry" is occasionally prosaic in treatment, but is not unworthy of its noble subject. Indeed, it seems difficult for Mr. Morris to sustain his narrative at the proper level of dignity. The defect is particularly visible in "Henry Martyn." Indeed, he makes, we think, his highest point in what may be called the epilogue, wherein, having told his stories of the Saints, he sums up, so to speak, the whole matter. The very finest passage, both in thought and versifi- cation, of the whole volume we take to be the following :— " He who spends

Lone vigils with the stars notes on night's face Some ghostly, scarce-suspected vapour gleam, And turns his optic-glass to it ; and, lo !

A mist of suns ! wherefrom the sensitive disc Fixes the rays, first scattered, then more dense With longer time, star after hidden star Stealing from out the unimagined void And twinkling into light, till on its face Those dark unplumbed abysses show no speck Of vacant gloom, a white and shining wall Of glomerated worlds, broad as the bound Which feeble fancy, yearning for an end, Builds round the verge of Space. So that bright throng Grew denser as I gazed, till Heaven was full Of the white cloud of witnesses, who still, As always since the worlds and Time began, Stand round the throne of God."

We have noted a few passages where revision is wanted. In " SS. Perpetua and Felicitas," we read how Perpetua became a Christian, and then- " her young brother,

Like her, believed, and so in piety They lived, till came an overwhelming wave Of bloodshed once again, and they denounced The faithful pair, and first Perpetua."

Who are the "they "?

In " S. Cecilia," the comparison of her purity to the sterile cold and brightness of mountain heights seems out of place :—

" No earthly love

Might touch her pure pale soul, which always viewed, Lit only by the frosty moon of faith, The cold clear peaks of soaring duty pierce

The still blue vault of heaven, as soar the snows

Of lifeless Alp on Alp, where comes no herb Nor blade of green, but all the icy world Dreams wrapt in robes of sterile purity."

Mr. Walter Smith's volume is interesting, as all his work is, but we can scarcely accord it the title of poetry. The author thinks much on many questions of the day, chiefly questions theological, and chooses to put his conclusions, or, if that word has too dogmatic a sound, his suggestions, into verse ; but what he writes has scarcely the poetical form. "The Heretic" is the life-story of a man who struggles into a broader view of Christian truth, and is denounced for his " unsoundness in the faith" by an old friend, who has been content to spend his days among books rather than men. The contrast between the two men, the narrowing of one spirit, the broadening growth of the other, are powerfully described. Powerful, again, is " Ruggles, the Salvationist." He is a militant atheist, who turns to his own way of thinking the girl whom he loves, and then is shocked to hear her echoing what he has taught her, and to see her dying without the hope of which he had himself robbed her:—

"0 God what horror fell on me !

What anguish of a heart still aching, Hidden by day that none might see,

But when the night came, like to breaking !

I knew what Hell was then, all night As I lay sleepless, moaning, sighing, And could not wish to dwell in light,

If she were in the darkness lying.

And in that passion of grief I felt What shallow thoughts I had been airing, Seeing them now like snowflakes melt In depths of infinite despairing."

Beyond question this has force, but it is scarcely poetry. " Herr Professor Kupper-Nickel" is a. very clever burlesque of evolutionary materialism, but it is still more remote from the standard at which all verse should aim. " What Pilate Thought of It" is a piece that one might have read without

any feeling of incongruity among Robert Browning's Men and Women; but even Browning was scarcely so careless as Mr. Walter Smith is in the following:— "Speak well of me,

My Lucius, to Sylvia and Nerissa, What time you sup in the old tavern by The Pincian, and the wine and mirth are free. CEesar will hardly trouble himself about This prophet's death, since it has pleased the Jews, But you might say a good word for him truly, And strike that old rogue, Annas. A good deed ! 0 that I could but squeeze from these hard Jews Some certain talents, and get back to Rome ! But they have sucked me rather, leaving only The dry rind o' the orange. Fare thee well !'

Yet form is not beyond his reach, as we may see from this musical melancholy of " Orwell : "—

" I stand on the shore of the lake,

Where the small wave ripples and frets ; 0 the land has its weeds, and the lake has its reeds, And the heart has its vain regrets.

Hark ! how the skylarks sing, Far up about god's own feet, And the click of the loom is in each little room, Of the long, bare villagestreet.

Yonder the old home stands, With the little grey kirk behind ; There are children at play on the sunny brae, And their shouts come down the wind,

With the smell of the old sweet flowers We planted there long ago;

And the red-moss rose still buds and blows By the door, where it used to grow.

All of it still unchanged, Yet all so changed to me ;

For love then was sweet, and its bliss complete, And there was no cloud to see.

But the light is quenched and gone That brightened the place of yore, And all the suns and the shining ones Shall bring back that light nevermore.

Ah me ! for the shore and the lake Where the small wave ripples and frets ! The land has its weeds, and the lake has its reeds, And the heart has its vain regrets."

There is much in Mr. Rawnsley's volume that may be read with pleasure. One function which he has elected to discharge is to perform the office of the sates Boxer for deeds of courage that might otherwise miss their meed of fame. He does it with feeling and eloquence, and yet he does not altogether hit the

mark. Let any one read, first " Catherine Watson," which is one of the best of these . ballads, and then the fisherman's narrative—Catherine Watson was a brave girl who died in saving some boys that had got out of their depths—and we will warrant that the plain prose will bring the tears to his eyes as the verse could not do. Many of the poems are in the Mid-Lincolnshire dialect, and these are, for the most part, very good. We do not pretend to judge, it must be understood, of their dialectical correctness. Humorous they certainly are, and sometimes grimly tragical. Witness the following :- " Eh, luvvy I them toimes is chaiinged—theer's nivver no gibbets now !

I can mind at Saucetripp Cross the last as they hing'd i' the chaiiins, And his poor owd feyther an' all as wur forced to feller the plow I' the flealds clots by, and the craws a-pickin' his oan son's braAins !"

Perhaps the best is " New-Fangledy Wadys," a dialogue between an " Old-Style Lincolnshire Farmer " and his wife. Here is a specimen of their views about ecclesiastical matters :-

" She.—And sarvice bet altered quite,

Wi' his dancin' hither and thither, And kneelin' fur Litany theer, And the Lessons aback ov a bird!

I'm all of a sweat and dither Wi' is oops and 'is downs ; and hear ?— Hummin' but nivver a word 1 And boys in theer bedgowns white !

He.—He malty minch and graiice as 'e likes, But I howds to a pew wi' a door ;

It's sa blaamedly cowd fur one kneas And neckhole, as things is now ; And as fur the singin'—it's moor Like a fair. daily branglement row; One can't git a none th' orgin strikes, And the psalm 's like a swarmin' o' bens.

When I wilr a boy the clerk gaave The nate wi' is pick-poipe plaain Eh, dear ! dost 'e moind that daay

When he puffed and the whistle wur stuck ?

And John,' sed the parson, quoite graave, Wot's oop ?' an' we 'eard 'im saay Loud howt, 'It's along o' the raiiin, Pick-poipe weant speak fur the muck !"

Here the clerk is quite natural, but we doubt whether his brother-official is quite so when he says that he does not like that the beasts should graze in the churchyard,–.-

"There where the flowers of men, God's tenderest grasses, lie." That sounds to us a little above the 'true pitch.