PoEraY. — The Prophecy of St. Oran, and other Poems. By Mathilde

Blind. (Newman and Co.)—Oran (whom we can hardly suppose to have been canonised) was one of the companions of St. Columba, and overpowered by the charms of a beautiful heathen to whom it was his duty to minister, broke his vows. He is buried alive, by the Saint's command, but rises three days afterwards from the grave to proclaim that there is no heaven or hell ; in short, that if

" There is a living God, that God is Love?'

This is the Gospel which our poet preaches, and she preaches it with much vigour, but certainly with a good-taste which all contempo- raries of the same way of thinking do not show. She has command of language, writes verse which is both melodious and strong, and pours out without stint a copious rhetoric of passion. Some gift of fancy, too, she possesses. What we miss is thought. Her poetry leaves some impression on the feelings, but scarcely a distinct image for the mind to realise. " The Abandoned " is, perhaps, the finest thing in the volume. This is too long for quotation, but we may give, as a specimen of Miss Blind's manner, "The Dead," one of a series of highly finished sonnets:— "The dead abide with us ! Though stark and cold Earth seems to grip them, they are with us still: They have forged our chains of being for good or ill; And their invisible hands these hands yet hold. Our perishable bodies are the mould

In which their strong, imperishable will— Mortality's deep yearning to fulfil- Hath grown incorporate through dim time untold.

Vibrations infinite of life in death.

As a star's travelling light survives its star ! So may we hold our lives, that when we are The fate of those who then will draw t his breath, They shall not drag us to their judgment bar, And curse the heritage which we bequeath."

—A Sculptor, and other Poems. By E. H. Hickey. (Kegan Paul, Trench, and Co.)—In these poems there is thought, but the form is often deficient. They are also sometimes at least wanting in clearness. The poem, for instance, which gives a title to the volume certainly fails to make its purpose understood at a first reading. The writer must study more diligently the technicalities of the poetical art, avoid especially a slipshod kind of verse of the jingling sort (used in "Margaret the Martyr," and elsewhere), which she is too fond of, and having plenty to say, and not being without a certain gift of eloquence in saying it, she may do well. There is much in her poems—notably in "A Dead Worker "—that reminds us, with- out suggesting imitation, of Mrs. Barrett-Browning.—Orellana, and other Poems. By J. Logic Robertson, M.A. (Blackwood and Son.)—There are some good things in Orellana, especially fine bits of description ; but the poem, on the whole, seems to drag. It wants action and motive. The execution is unequal; at times, it is stately and musical, as here :—

" In this fair land, A new-made world then first surveyed by eyes Tired with a-8 faded glories of the old, Perpetual Spring and Summer, hand in hand, Inseparable sisters, made their home Eternal in the valleys ; wintry storms Menace, but come not, nor the bounteous year Ends in a harvestry of withered leaves, But leaf to leaf, without a pease, succeeds, Shooting off death, and bud to blossom grows."

Sometimes, on the other hand, it is feeble and monotonous. Of the other poems, many have a sub-humorous tone. In this, Mr. Robert- son seems to excel. "A Gift for a Bride" seems to us particularly good.—In Doors and Out. By E. Wordsworth. (Hatchards.)— This is a very pleasant volume of verse, always readable, a quality which verse of respectable merit often seems to lack. Miss Words- worth describes and moralises in rhymes that never wants grace and melody. Whether the " outdoor" poems, with their genuine love of Nature, or the " indoor," with their deeper thought, are to be pre- ferred, we cannot say. Here is a specimen of the former, from a poem, " Leeds Trippers' at Haddon Hall," showing a gift of sym- pathy which is not the least of Miss Wordsworth's claims to be worthy of her great name :-

" Ah no! but how could we help it ? Men grow like flowers or weeds; And some spring up at Haddon, and some are bred at Leeds 'Twas surely no fa :lt of ours, if we lived in a vulgar plat', And not in a grand old caste, like yon, my lady Grace.

Perhaps we might care as fondly as earl, or knight, or dame, For birth and breeding and beauty, for chivalry, art, and fame ; Perhaps, had the choice been ours, we'd rather have lived in state, Beneath ancestral banners, than at Number twenty-eight.

I think, if I had my choice, my dear, I should rather like To have had your portrait painted by Antony Vandyke, Instead of that poor brown libel, an insult to 3 on and art ; Your photograph, such as it is, I wear it above my heart!

They talk of Dorothy Vernon, and say she was passing fair! She stole away to her lover, by moonlight, down yonder stair ; But you are as fair, and surely your love is as true to me, Though we walk together on Sundays for all the world to see.

0 say, once, and for over, what is this thing, romance ? I doubt if Dorothy felt it that evening she left the dance ; While you and I who are standing to-night in this oaken hall, Two humdrum city-bred people, my dearest, we feel it all !

For us is the genial sunshine ; for us the shadows dim ; For us the stately chambers, the wide-mouthed gargoyles grim ; For us the sleepy hovering of motes in the slanting light ; For us, hi the empty chapel, the swallow's curved flight. For as 'mid a glimmering greenness, one yellow leaf floats to ground ;

For us the kilns are lowing ; for ns the tree-tops sound ; With ns, like a magic castle, this place, this mood will stay, Love's gift to us for ever, though ours but for a day."