Flower and Thorn. By Thomas Bailey Aldrich. (Routledge.)—In this volume

we have three longer poems, containing together about two- fifths of the whole. These three are "Spring in New England," "Miantowona," and "The Legend of Ara Caeli." The second is an Indian legend, failing signally, as it seems to us, in the matter of form. Its verse, if verse it may be called, wants both dignity and melody, we were almost going to say, rhythm. The third is far more successful. The "Legend" tells how an Italian wife, maddened by her own dis- appointed hopes of motherhood and the husband's neglect, stole the holy" Bambino," substituting for it an image in which a

"Skilful Jew

Had given the eyes the tender blue,

And the cheeks the delicate olive hue, And the form almost the curve and line Of the Image the good Apostle made Immortal with his miraculous art.

What time the sculptor dreamed in the shade

Under the skies of Palestine

and of how the wrath of Heaven was shown by a furious tempest, in the midst of which the sainted Child came home to its convent. It is a fanciful tale, such as American poets delighted to deal with, before they found that they had great subjects at home, and it is gracefully treated. But the best poem in the book is suggested by a subject which does come from home. "Spring in New England" is one of the many fine poems which have been called forth in America by the emotions of the great Civil War. If the following is scarcely equal to what Mr. Lowell wrote on a similar subject, yet it has genuine beauty and pathos :—

"When we remember how they died—

In dark ravine and on the mountain-side, In leaguered fort and fire-encircled town, Upon the gun-boat's splintered deck,

And where the iron ships went down—

How their dear lives were spent, In the crushed and reddened wreck, By lone lagoons and streams, In the weary hospital-tent,

In the cockpit's crowded hive—

How they languished and died In the black stockades—It seems Ignoble to be alive!

Tears will well to our eyes,

And the bitter doubt will rise—

Bat hush! for the strife is done, Forgiven are wound and scar; The fight was fought and won Long since, on sea and shore, And every scattered star Set in the blue once more: We are one as before, With the blot from our scutcheon gone !'

"So let our heroes rest Upon your sunny breast: Keep them, 0 South, our tender hearts and true, Keep them, 0 South, and learn to hold them dear From year to year!

Never forget,

Dying for us, they died for you. This hallowed dust should knit us closer yet.

Bark! 'Lis the bluebird's venturous strain

High on the old fringed elm at the gate-

Sweet-voiced, valiant on the swaying bough, Alert, elate, Dodging the fitful spits of snow, New England's poet-laureate Telling us Spring has come again!"

Some of the " gnomic " poetry of the " Quatrains " is vigorous. We must find room for a sonnet, "England," one of the generous utterances which go far to heal many wounds:—

ENGLAND.

"While men pay reverence to mighty things They must revere thee, thou blue-cinctured isle Of England—not to-day, but this long while In the front of nations, Mother of great kings, Soldiers, and poets. Round thee the Sea flings His steel-bright arm, and shields thee from the guile And hurt of France. Secure, with august smile, Thou sittest, and the East its tribute brings.

Some say thy old-time power is on the wane,

Thy moon of grandeur Pilled, contracts at length—

They see it darkening down from less to less. Let but a hostile hand make threat again, • And they shall see thee in thy ancient strength, Each iron sinew quivering, lioness!"