PAYN'S POEMS. * THERE is much promise and some performance in

this little volume of verses. The writer has tenderness of feeling, a perception of the true points of interest in a story and of beauty in a landscape, and the not common power of varying his style with the na- ture of his materials. His deficiency, springing probably from the "youth and inexperience" he speaks of in his dedication, lies mainly in his choice of subjects. As regards the merit of mere execution there is little difference in the poems—possibly some of the least effective are the best written; but the difference upon the reader is great indeed. With a fresh incident of domestic life placed in appropriate scenery, or with a topic suggestive of an nnhacknied train of thought, Mr. Payn produces a little poem of interest and freshness. When he selects a theme already worn by use, though the skill of the treatment or the merit of the verses is just the same, the piece if not commonplace is comparatively flat. Part of the book consists of versified stories from Boccaccio ; to which the remarks just made immediately, apply. The stories are told with great cleverness : the air of Italian levity and persiflage is well caught; the style is varied with the successive themes, and the manner has the freshness of an original. Nevertheless, it is cleverness wasted. It is not easy to overrate the merit of Boc- caccio as a founder of Italian prose, and as an agreeable raconteur, or his value as the preserver of a series of remarkable incidents, often true in fact, always truthful as a picture of manners and society. But that society combined in a very remarkable degree the grossest immorality with a pedantic refinement, in which it was difficult to say whether sickly sentiment or absurd affectation predominated. Hence, Boccaccio's tales are in substance generally unadapted to the present age ; and for his style, or as a picture of manners, there is the original always at hand.

The other poems of Mr. Payn are brief, and mostly consist of stories or incidents set in a framework forming a series of sketches in which pictures and sentiments predominate over narrative. The best are taken from the times ; the sufferings of poverty being a leading topic, without undue exaggeration or cant, and with touches of a religious feeling, not overdone. Of these pieces the best is on the death of a scythe-stone-cutter, who was killed by the falling in of the quarry where he was at work. The story is well told, and all the accessories are appropriate. This piece of landscape from the opening is striking, natural, and distinct, with a sentiment at the bottom of the description.

" A mighty range of cliff o'erhangs The village where we dwell.

Dug deep with pits and passages And many a eavem'd cell,

Where particoloured heather spreads

O'er all the sandy space. And dark and gloomy fir forests Are bristling o'er its face, Which the wild winds ever gladly Have chosen for their home, And sprinkled o'er its mosses, The salt sea's snowy foam ; For when the fir-trees whisper Soft in an under-breath, You may hear the peaceful ocean Low-murmuring beneath ; You may see it woo the soft sand, Kissing its dimples sweet, Or reddening 'neath the sunlight In diffident retreat; And when the Northern tempests Scatter the winter's snow, The great Atlantic straineth Its eager strength below; O'erleaping in its fury Each feeble bar and bound, With which our simple nature Bath strove to edge it round.

'Tis a lovely place to roam in From out the noontide heat,

To earn bread for his little starts for his dangerous work.

"A little son and daughter, As fair as they could be. Were playing round his foot-steps In carelessness of glee. Nor either yet forgetting, As carelessly they played, To carry up between them The burden of his spade. Their walk was not a long one, And soon they reached the pit, And fearlessly those little ones Have entered into it.

They make the cavern echo To childhood's merry whoop, And run along the passages Where father has to stoop : He passed the props of safety, (The richer miner's ground,) But leaves his little children Where all is safe and sound ; And straightway he beginneth. To pick into the wall, Nor dreameth that a danger Can any way befall. • Kow come unto me, children— Nay, one will do alone— My little daughter, help rae To carry out the stone;

And you, my son, will watch us, And listen where we be.'— With the lofty tree-tops o'er us And the wave beneath our feet, With the woodmen's axes ringing So clearly in our ear, And the chcking of the hammers From the mountains in the rear. But look not on the workman, On him who digs the mine, On whom from morn to even No summer sun.will shine; Upon whose chest and forehead Hang thick the sweat-drops big; Whose hands and feet are trembling And failing as they dig; His eyes are gazing brightly, More brightly than should be ; They sparkle while he's speaking, But it is not with glee; The fresh and heightened colour,

That seems of health to speak, Is but the hectic fever-flush

That lights his withered cheek: And men in hundreds labour Still at that noxious trade, Though death itself be striking With each stroke of the spade: They must not let the Famine Be wife's and children's doom, Although they feel their digging

Be the digging of their tomb."

children, the scythe-stone-cutter

And looked he straight toward them, But nothing could he see: A mass of falling sandstone, Some glimmerings of light, And wall and roof and passage

Came whirling on hie sight ;

A deafening clap of thunder, A splitting earthquake shock, The sand in roaring torrents, The rending of the rock,

The death-shriek of a victim—

(A sound distinct and clear,) Fell in one fearful moment On his bewildered ear; And then a piteous gasping Of suffocating breath, An agonizing struggling Against the strength of Death ; A call upon his Maker !— The boy could stay no more, But turned away; and shrieking Math hied him to the shore ; And far and near the workman From mountain and from plain, The woodman from the forest, The fisher from the main, Have snatched up spade and pickaxe And hastened as they may, To force the greedy cavern To yield them up its prey."

• Stories from Boccaccio, and other Poems. By James Payn, Trill. Coll. Cam- bridge. Published by Wright.