POETRY.—The Bard of the Dimbovitza. Collected by Heline Vacaresco. Translated

by "Carmen Sylva " and Alma Strettell. (Osgood, McIlvaine, and Co.)—The first series of these" Roumanian Folk-Songs" made a great impression, and this will strengthen it. The two are remarkable for qualities which popular poetry does not often possess,—imagination among them. There is as much poetry in us here in England as in any nation in the world, and no little of it is found among the uneducated. This is not wanting in strength ; it has often both humour and pathos. But we might look in vain for anything like the following from a poem called " Sleep " (the abstract nature of the subject is itself a point of difference) :— "Bleep said: ' I know so many things; Dreams do I know, and sighs.

More than the forest that ceaseless murmurs, More than the river that weeps, I know, More than the wind that sings.

And I know more than the hearts of men, Since I can silence their hearts.'

So then the forest, the wind, and the river, And the hearts of men, all said to Sleep: 'Come, tell us what thou dost know.' Then Sleep replied: 'I will tell you softly:— And he said to them: 'Rest I know.

And I know, besides, what the maiden hideth—• What the wife doth not dare to tell.

"Thou haat the face of my heart's beloved," The maiden saith to me ; and the wife : "The voice of my husband beat thou."

• • • • • • . • "Thou hash the taste of the freshest water," The thirsting' traveller saith to me.

"Thou best the look of my hone," salth the wan l'rer.' " —A Book of Song. By Julian Sturgis. (Lonpmans.)—Some of these songs have a real lyric inspiration. They have, it might be said, more suggestion than absolute meaning in them ; but when we have melody and sweetness, we may well be content. Mr. Sturgis's work is slight, but it is of good quality. Here is a specimen of it :— "To ALTILSI. SINGING.

Now am I jealous of things musio‘l,

And would instruct mine ear

In the deep silence of the world to hear

The withered leaf down fall, And the far pebb`a shifted on the shore ;

And I would learn the lore Of babbling rivulets and bubbling springs,

The multitudinous murmur of the gran*

And notes of all the little birds that pass Till air is rhythmical w.th pulsing wings :—

But soft! My mistress sings ;

I ask no more.

Enough for me to list her lightest tone ;

I hear all music hearing her alone."

—Twenty-Odd. By Burton Betham. (Reeves and Turner.)—Mr. Betham is, we suppose, a new aspirant to fame. Success, where the avenues are so thronged, we cannot promise ; but he has at least begun well. The first poem, scarcely equalled, perhaps, in the " twenty-odd " which make up the volume, is distinctly promising :—

"On with the years ! nor let us stay To linger over dying fires—

Cast custom's broken moulds away That shape not as our heart desires— And let us dare to act, and prove If there be truth in truth or love With the sweet fury of the spring

That thro' dark winter's bondage shoots, Thro' these thick shadows let us wing

To action full of after fruits : The world were easy to redeem Would faith dare do what love dare dreamt"

—Songs of a Strolling Player, by Robert George Legge (A. D. Innes and Co.), is another volume of modest size, also, we sup- pose, the work of a beginner. But it is a beginner who knows what he is writing about and wields a facile pen. There is a certain bitterness in his verse; he sees impudent frauds succeed, as when-

" A perfect roar greets the coach-and-four And the might-have-been Marohioness,"

and ponders on the problem-

" Why Lottie Littleton plays the leads."

He is severe on "Our Amateur" and music-hall songs, and con- trasts "Manager A," who is not an honest man, and succeeds, with "Manager B," who is honest, and does not. But he is distinctly clever. Here are two stanzas of "On Tour," where, for once, he is in a happier mood :—

"Can't you hear the world awake

With the ousel in the brake,

And the sunlight calling whore the violet grows,

And the golden eelandine

Setting ditches all ashine,

And the daffodil! ies looking at your toes ? Where the small ground-ivy nips At the dew with purple lips,

And the mercury is green beneath the thorn,

And the tit is at a bad, And the cows are champing end, And the humble-bee's a-tuning of his horn !- 'Tie a queerish bit of soil This old world where many toil, And the few who've got the luck contrive to reap But it isn't all a frost, And there's nothing really lost. Though a precious lot that's valuable to keep ;

While the sunlight's on the scene,

While there's miles of blue and green, And the sky is hung as easy as a baize—

Well, the piece is going strong And we'll carry it along Till the curtain ends our comedy of days."

Roundheads and Cavaliers ; or, The Pretty Puritan, by Arthur Bridge (Bell and Sons), is a drama, the most difficult of all things to make readable. We begin with Cromwell, who remarks to Milton, among other things,— " This flattering world Oft smiles approval on success not right. How careful in such case a man should be To dear his mind, his conscience closely try That no ill passions wait upon the deed."

That does not sound Cromwellesque. Nor is Milton much more like himself. It is rash to introduce a great poet speaking. He should be a persona mute, or as nearly mute as may be. There is some fair rhetoric in the play, but the speeches are far too long. —Queen Elizabeth and Earl Leicester. By Walter Inglisfield. (Elliot Stock.)—Mr. Inglisfield must really learn what blank verse means. Is it possible that he should have read Shakespeare and Milton, and still think that what he gives us is poetry F— "Come, tell me do ye think yourselves that she Could marry one more worthy her ? Though I May justly be considered partial to My BOG. yet I have heard It stated that The Emperor's son, the Archduke Bedell, or E'en John of Austria, are not so noble, But much inferior to Alencon."

It is inconceivable how a man, presumably of some culture, should not see that this is mangled prose.—The May Queen. By David Burns. (Thurnam and Sons, Carlisle.)—Mr. Burns's verse is of but moderate quality; but he has collected some information

in his notes.—A Lover's Diary. By Gilbert Parker. (Methuen.) —Mr. Parker gives us here a book of sonnets. We cannot say that he has quite mastered this difficult form of verse. Again and again we find the promise of the first half wanting accomplish- ment in the second. But the verse has some good qualities; it is touched with feeling and illuminated by fancy. Here is as favourable a specimen of Mr. Parker's manner as we can find ; but it is a long way from being perfect. "Register Love's cause" and "refrains from divination" are distinctly tame and prosaic :—

" Nay, lady, though I love thee, I make pause

Before thy question, and know naught to say ; Art cannot teach use to define the way, Love led me, nor e'en register Love's cause.

It can but blazon in this verse of mine What love does for me ; what from Love it gains ; What is its quickening; but it refra;ns

From divination where thy merits shins.

Canst thou, iudeed, not tell what we ought in thea To bring me as a captive to thy feet? Canst thou not say, ''Twas Ms that made decree Of conquest ; here thy soul with mine did meet 'P

Or IA it that both stand amazed before

The shrine where thou bast blessed and I adore?"

—Italian Lyrists of To-Day. By G. A. Greene. (Mathews and Lane.)—Mr. Greene has translated here specimens of more than thirty Italian poets, all of them of quite recent date. An Intro- duction reviews Italian literature during the last thirty or forty years, and each piece is preceded by a brief biographical notice. The volume will be found of considerable interest.—We have also received : Lallan Songs and German Lyrics, by R. Macleod Fullarton (Blackwood and Sons) ; The Cross of Sorrow, by William Akerman (Bell and Sons) ; Gleanings from Thoughtland,by " Fern- leaf" (Digby, Long, and Co.) ; Idylls of the Dawn (Bell and Sons) ; Hieratica, by Percy Pinkerton (Gay and Bird) ; A Christmas Tale, by Ellen Elizabeth Gillett (Elliot Stock) ; The Flute of Athena, and other Poems, by Reuben Bradley (same publisher) ; On Parra Banks, and other Poems, by Thomas Edwin Holtham (McCarron, Bird, and Co., Melbourne) ; The Torch-Bearers, by Arlo Bates (Roberts Brothers, Boston) ; Eremus, by Stephen Phillips (Kegan Paul, Trench, and Co.) ; Poems, and other Pieces, by Margaret T. Bell (Leadenhall Press) ; Scottish Pastorals and Ballads, by Alexander Falconer (Hodge and Co., Glasgow) ; The Persian Vizier, and other Poems, by Francis Henry Cliffe (Remington and Co.) ; Spring's Immortality, and other Poems, by Mackenzie Bell (Ward, Lock, and Bowden) ; Sonnets, and other Verses, by Edward Harding (Elliot Stock).