London Lyrics, by Frederick Locker (Henry S. King and Co.),
appear in a "new edition, enlarged, and finally revised." It is a volume which does not now need any critic's commendation. Most people are agreed to accept the London Lyrics as among the best of English vers de societe. Not unfrequently they rise above this level, and suggest that if the writer had been less fastidious, and if we may he bold enough to say it, more industrious, be might have made himself a good place among poets. Perhaps we may read as much between the lines of one of the poems that appear for the first time in this edition
ANY POET TO MS LOVE.
A rather sad man, still at tintes he was jolly,
And though hating afoot, he'd a weakness for folly.
"Immortal verse! Is mine the strain To last and live? As ages wane Will one be found to twine the bays, And praise me then as now you praise ?
Will there be one to praise? Ah no 1 My laurel-leaf may never grow ; My bust is in the quarry yet,— Oblivion weaves my coronet.
Immortal for a month—a week ! The garlands wither as I speak; The song will die, the harp's unstrung,— But, singing, have I vainly sung ?
You deign'd to lend an ear the while I trill'd my lay. I won your smile. Now, let it die, or let it live,— My verse was all I had to give.
The linnet flies on wistful wings, And ands a bower, and lights and sings ; Enough if my poor verse endures To light and live—to die in yours."
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