THREE MINOR POETS" WE expressed our conviction last week that

this was the age in which there is a greater number of good writers of the second and third class than ever flourished in England before, and we apply this judgment quits as much to our poetry as to our fiction. Here, for instance, are three volumes of poetry, in no one of which would any good critic fail to find sources of real pleasure, though in some of them he might find sources of something beside real pleasure. Take first a selection from Mr. Alfred Austin's poems, a passage for each day of the year.

It is simply surprising how many of these little poems are capable of giving a real sensation of delight. Generally we

should say that Mr. Austin understands birds and flowers better than he understands anything else in Nature, and that whenever we come on a study of birds or flowers, we come on something which reminds us strongly of the greater poets. We open at random, and find this on the thrush :—

" Hark to the thrush gurgling in yonder tree ! He hath inhaled the liquid air whilst flying, And, now he chooses him another perch, Gives it us back in notes intangible ; Which is the very music that we want, Did we bat know it. For your spoken song, Too fall of meaning, lacks significance. Hark how again he sings celestially, The very heaven of music meaningless! He is a better poet than as all."

Or this, again, on the same subject :— " High on a bare conspionons spray,

That none may doubt who chants the lay, Proud of his undisputed skill To breast whatever note he will, The thrush runs revelling all along The spacious gamut of his song; Varies, inverts, repeats the strain, Then sings it different again."

Or, again, this on the primrose — "Ere the hardy crocus ()leaves Sanay borders 'neath the eaves, Ere the thrush his song rehearse Sweeter than all poets' verse, Ere the early bleating lambs Cling like shadows to their dams, Ere the blackthorn breaks to white, Snowy-hooded anchorite ; Out from every hedge yon look, You are bright by every brook, Wearing for your sole defence Fearleesneas of innocence."

It is the same all through the book. You never open it at any page in which a bird or a flower is the subject, but you feel that Mr. Austin belongs to the great family of poets, even though,

• 1. Days of the Year: a Poetic Calendar from theWorks of Alfred Austin. &looted and Edited by "A. S." With an Introdaotion by William Sharp, London Walter Scott.-2. Sonnets. Revised and Enlarged Edition. By Emily Pfeiffer. London: Field and Toe, ; illimpkin and Marshall.-3. The Lazy Minstrel. By J. Ashby-Merry. London: T. Fisher Unpin.

when he takes up the theme of man, you may feel that ho dis- appoints you.

Mrs. Pfeiffer's sonnets disappoint you oftener, for they have more in them of self consciousness and strain. Sometimes, as when she insists on apostrophising our Lord as " sweet Christ," or calling Etna,— "Martyr of mountains, shall I say, the Christ,

Bearing earth's sorrows, for ite trespass made Sin,"—

she offends us very seriously indeed. But still, in her volume there are many true and simple poems, fall of strength, and terse in their expression. For instance, this on the almost benumbing grandeur of such a country as Switzerland:— "AMONG THE GLACIERS.

Land of the beacon-hills that flame up white, And spread as from on high a word sublime, How is it that upon the roll of time Thy sons have rarely writ their names in light ?

Land where the voices of loud waters throng, Where avalanches sweep the mountain's side,

Hare men have wived and fought, have worked and died,

But all in silence listened to thy song.

Is it the vastness of the temple frowning On changing symbols of the artist's faith, Is it the volume of the music drowning The utterance of his frail and fleeting breath, That shames all forms of worship, and of praise, Save the still service of laborious days ?"

Or this, again, on " The Sting of Death "— .' 0 Thou whom men affirm we cannot know,

It may be we may never see Thee nearer Than ' in the clouds,' nor ever trace Thee clearer Than in that garment which, howe'er aglow With love divine, is still a changing show, A little shadowing forth, and more coucealirg, A glory which, in uttermost revealing, Might strike us dead with one supreme life-blow.

We may not reach Thee through the void immense Measured by suns, or prove Thee anywhere, Bat hungry eyes that hunt the wilds above For one lost face, still drop despairing thence To find Thee in the heart—life's ravished lair— Else were the 'sting of death' not sin, but love !"

Or this, again, " To a Fledgling Robin "-

"Robin, thou art too young as yet to wear

The badge of robinhood in fall confest- The burning breast-plate on the conscious breast— And haat not learnt to build, to sing, or care; Only to live, filled with the liberal air, Which, when it gently breathed from south or west, Found and o'erflowed thee in thy sheltered nest, To dwell as marrow in thy feathers fair.

I, weary thinker 'neath the aspen trees,

See thee win past me, lightsome as a bubble—

No labouring bark, with purblind thought to steer it, But a plumed will that rules with sovereign ease ;

Approach, glad life, as free of doubt as trouble— I feel as if in presence of a spirit."

The continuation of this subject in the second sonnet is not as good. Indeed, Mrs. Pfeiffer's series are seldom sustained at the level at which she opens, at least when she opens well.

"The Lazy Minstrel" is by a writer who always aims rather at light airs than at the loftier themes ; but while he is never ambitious in his aim, he is generally happy in his mood, and shows extraordinary ease, and sometimes not a little grace, in hitting off a bright impression

"Tag LITTLE REBEL. Princess of pretty pets, Tomboy in trouserettes ; Eyes are like violets-

Gleef ally glancing! Skin, like an otter sleek, Nose, like a baby-Greek, Sweet little dimple-cheek- Merrily dancing !

Lark-like her song it trills, Over the dale and hills, Hark how her laughter thrills'.

Joyously joking.

Yet, should she feel inclined, I fancy you will find, She, like all womankind, Oft is provoking !

Often she stands on chairs, Sometimes she unawares Slyly creeps up the stairs, Secretly hiding : Then will this merry maid— She is of nought afraid—

Come down the balustrade, Saucily sliding! Books she abominates, But see her go on skates, And over five-barred gates

Fearlessly scramble ! Climbing up apple-trees, Barking her supple knees, Flouting mama's decrees—

Oat for a ramble.

Now she is good as gold, Then she is pert sod bold, Minds not what she is told, Carelessly tripping. She is an April miss,

Bounding to grief from bliss, Often she has a kiss—

Sometimes a whipping !

Naughty bat best of girls, Through life she gaily twirls, Shaking her sunny curls— Careless and joyful. Ev'ry one on her dotes, Carolling merry notes, Pet in short petticoats—

Truly toraboyful !"

It would not be easy to give a clearer or brighter impression of a little tomboy than this. But Mr. Ashby-Sterry aims occasionally at too much point, and vaulting ambition o'erleaps itself and falls on the other side. Here, for instance, is a little poem which begins very prettily, but closes in a verse of decided anti-climax, though it is evidently the author's notion that he has turned it off very neatly ,--- .'Morasa o' PetaL.

0, Pearl is the sweetest creation Her shod with the tiniest boots— I wish she had ne'er a relation,

I wish I'd a balance with Contts ! They say Pearl is so like her mother;

Was she like my pet when a.girl ? Will pet become just such another Some day as the Mother o' Pearl?

My Pearl is the prettiest kitten, She laughs—will she ever grow fat ?

Or e'er, with mad jealousy smitten, Develop the mind of a cat ? Her figure get round as a bubble ?

Her hair lose its exquisite curl ?

Her chin get undimpled and double, Like that of the Mother o' Pearl ?

Will Pearl become pert.and capricious, And haughty and give herself airs ? (I thought, when she looked so delicious Last night when we sat on the stairs.) Will she patronise me in her bounty, And boast of her uncle the Earl? Or talk with cold pride of the county, As often does Mother o' Pearl ?

Will Pearl ever sneer at her betters, Or e'er act the amateur spy ?

And try to read other folk's letters,

Or listen at doors on the sly ? . . . If boy to the mm be the father, Mama to the woman is—girl- As daughter-in•law I would rather

Not father the Mother o' Pearl !"

You have to look at that last couplet very carefully before you catch the meaning, and when you catch it, it is not worth getting at. Still, the volume is full of lively and agreeable verse, and shows us that even in care de saciite, that region in which it is perhaps hardest to succeed, and not very easy evento fancy success where success has not been attained, we have poets of considerable skill and promise.