POETRY.—Airs from Arcady and Elsewhere. By H. C. Banner.

Hutt.)—There are some very graceful verses in this volume, which will doubtless furnish its contribution to the English anthology of the future. ' English' must, of course, be taken of the language rather than of the nation; all that comes from this side of the Atlantic in this particular volume being the publisher's name. Mr. Banner does not quite come up to the mark of Mr. Austin Dobson and Mr. Andrew Lang. His work has flaws which an artist of the first rank would not pass over. A good stanza is too often followed by one that is certainly not finished ad unguem. Here, for instance, are a couple of stanzas from "A Lost Child;" the child, we need hardly say, is Love :—

" By the devil in his dimple ;

By his lies that sound so true ; By his shaft-sting, that no simple Ever culled will heal for you.

By his heckonings that embolden ; By his quick withdrawiogs then; By his flying hair, a golden Light to lure the feet of men."

Here "then," in the second stanza, is very feeble. Mr. Banner has some skill in parody. Here is one of Mr. Swinburne's supposed " variations " on " Home, Sweet Home ":—

" [An exile from home, splendor denies in vain—

For here we know shall no gold thing glisten, No bright thing burn, and no swept thing shine; Nor Love lower never an ear to listen To words that work in the heart like wine. What time we are set from our land apart, For pain of passion and hunger of heart,

Though we walk with exiles fame faints to christen, Or sing at the Cytherean's shrine."

Of the more serious kind, we may quote "Dead in Bohemia ":— " [Irwin Russell died in New Orleans, December, 1879.]

Small was thy share of all this world's de'ight, And scant thy poet's crown of flowers of praise ; Yet ever catches quaint of quaint old days Thou sang'st, and, singing, kept thy spirit bright Even as to lips the winds of winter bite

Some outcast wanderer sets his flute and plays Till at his feet blossom the icy ways,

And from the snow-drift's bitter wasting white He hears the uprising carol of the lark,

Soaring from clover seas with summer ripe— While freeze upon his cheek glad, foolish tears. Ah I let no hope that somewhere in thy dark, Herrick's full note, and Suckling's pleasant pipe Are sounding still their solace in thine ears."

—Ballads and Dreams. By Tom Ferguson. (Began Paul, Trench, and Co.)—Mr. Ferguson's verses stand somewhat above the level of ephemeral poetry ; they have a certain grace and freshness, but we still doubt their title to exist, at least to any existence beyond the friendly circle which reads into an author's compositions what it knows of his personality. To the outside critic a volume like this, too good to censure, not good enough to praise, makes as difficult a task as any that can be set to him. There are things in it well said in their degree, but nothing said better than it has been said before ; we might go farther, and write nothing said as well. Here are two stanzas from "Hylas"

" But, flushed and smiling, where wan lilies gleam On shining waters by no ripple stirred, Young Hylas stands and hearkens in a dream, And never heeds, and answers not a word. Delicious odours scent the summer air, And through the leafy shadows of the place The sunlight quivers on his golden hair

And slender form and flower-sweet, perfect tam.

• Hylas!' Nay, Herakles, you call in vain, For from the crystal depths whore nymphs abide Steals, soft and silver-sweet, a siren strain That summons him for ever from your side ; And white bands beckon and fair faces smile Is strange unearthly leanty far below, And pleading lips are proffering the while Such joys as never mortal could forego."

This is respectable verse, but is it as good as what Properties wrote of the fountain, where iS irriguo surgebant lilia Prato

Candida pnrpureie mixta papaveribus "?

—An Irish Garland. By Mrs. Piatt. (David Douglas, Edinburgh.) —The Irish poems, six in number, have something distinctive about them which separates from the ordinary verse to which they would otherwise belong. Mrs. Piatt comes across the Atlantic to hang her wreath on some Irish shrines ; and her gift, though it has no parti- cularly fine quality to show, has a certain interest of its own. Mrs. Piatt is wanting in power of expression ; but she has something to say. --The Emperor's Wish, by Fairfax L. Cartwright (Field and Tuer), is " a play in five acts," which has the fall of Nero for its subject. It is clear that Mr. Cartwright cannot write verse ; witness the following :— "V. Mess. Beloved•Vononia, did it depend on me

Thou wonldst not go. But can I oppose The Emperor's orders P Bost thou know, Vononia, What is the power of a Roman Emperor ?

'Tis vain to oppose his wishes ; and I so weak, So impotent against him. Oh, my beloved! One way alone remains can save thee from The passionate lust of Nero, one way alone; And thinking of it makes my heart sink low. The thought of losing thee kills me, Vononia."

But surely Mr. Cartwright could, if he would, have acquainted himself with the true history of the events which he seeks to dramatise. He might have found out that Galbe, was not "commander of the legions stationed in Italy," but governor of one of the divisions of Spain. He might also have read that Nero's last words were not a curse on Galba, but the characteristic exclamation, " Qualls artifex pereo !" And, finally, he might have known, had he had that acquaintance with Roman history which one would expect from one who handles such a theme, that "Dolabella" is not a woman's name. It must be allowed, however, that it has a cruelly misleading sound. Lorello is another play in five acts by the came author.—Towards the Truth. By Sir John Croker Barrow, Bart. (Longman.)—This book is so well intentioned that we are loath to say anything of it that might seem wanting in respect. But surely these "thoughts in verse," as the author calls them on his title-page, would have been very much better as "thoughts in prose." Is there any conceivable advantage in giving a metrical form to the following?— "How, then—however grand it be— Can such a complex book as this— Being as mystic as it is—

Be any guide, to you, or me P

No manuscripts can we collect— The old Originals are not—

Their ancient language is forgot- And—are the Copies, all, correct How know we that some be not lost ?

How know we that if all be there, There be not, with them, anywhere, Some pseudo-copes, to our coat?

Or, should such copies seem, when seen,

Complete—as far as we can tell— Translated, faultlessly, as well—

Yet, still, how know we what they mean?"

Verse has its use to help the memory ; and we need not be particular about the quality of the lines which give, say, the exceptions to the roles for the gender of Latin norms ; but what can be the use of such lines as those which we have quoted ? It is really a strange problem how a man of culture, who has presumably studied the "In Memoriam," could persuade himself to submit to the public this dreary imitation—or, shall we say, travesty—of it.—Agamemnon's Daughter. By Denton Winder. (J. It. Osgood, Boston ; Triibner, London.) —Mr. Winder tells the story of Iphigenia in stanzas modelled after the ottava rirna. There are four cantos, each containing between 110 and 120 stanzas, moderately good, and generally correct in language and versification, but never rising into dignity or strength ; and hardly tinged, we may say, with anything like true classical feeling. We say generally correct, but " La.cedemon " (sic) cannot be made to rhyme with "Agamemnon," and the rhyme of " Helen " and " dwell in" belongs to comic rather than to serious poetry. It sounds a little strange, again, to hear "Helen of Troy" spoken of as "Aunt Helen." Finally, we may remark that the place where Iphigenia ministered at the altar of Diana was not "Tanis," but the country of the Tend.