Porrav.—Poems. By Fanny Fisher. (T. Fisher Unwin.) —Mrs. Fisher publishes
here all the verses that she has written, or, at least, thinks fit to give to the world. Some of them have already appeared, and have met with that moderate approval which critics give to work that is fairly good in form and thoroughly good in sentiment. A lady who can write such a line as "A changeling, a supposititious son," is clearly not very skilful in melody; nor is a fine taste consistent with such a stanza as :—
"My heart is one foul sepulchre of hope
Which sin has murdered with its treach'rous hand. Each fibre with the worms of woe doth cope; My brain seems turned to India's scorching sand."
—Reveries, Rhymes, and Rondeaus. By William Cartwright Newsam. (Griffith, Ferran, and Co.)—We have here a volume of verse which we may call almost ideally commonplace. The taste most severely hostile to originality cannot possibly find anything to complain of. Mr. Newsam naturally does not always reach the very highest level; but he is never far from it.—My Boy's Request. By Charles Hardy. (Remington and Co.)—Mr. Hardy is at his best when he is on horseback. There is some spirit in his hunting verses ; but then, one re- members Mr. Whyte-Melville.—Madeline, and other Poems. By James McCarron. (Belford, Clark, and Co., Chicago, &c.; J. H. Drane, London.)—Mr. McCarron has been an editor for many years—we hear of his connection with a newspaper nearly fifty years ago—but then, they begin young in America. He has given
some of such leisure as this work allows to the Muse, and not without good result. We cannot agree with the editor of this volume that he is "one of the truest poets that ever touched the lyre of gold." But he is a man of true poetical feeling, with the fancy especially well developed, and possessed of considerable power of melodious expression. Another of his gifts is the power of appreciating and rendering Nature. Here is a specimen of his
Vent) :— " AUTUMN.
The ripe fields are scattered in eddies of gold On the verge of the forest that's kindling apace ; And the orchards that dapple the wide-spreading wold. Through their loopholes of leaves—as we pause to behold— Flash their beautiful, festival lamps in our face.
And the amber-coned pear, with the peach's flushed ball, And the sunny-cheeked apple that's mimsoned all o'er, Blend with pleiads of grapes that in purple showers fall Over many a green-muffled trellis and wall, With a thousand bright fancies and dreams at their core.
And its coralline clusters the mountain ash shakes, Till they rattle in fiery bail to the ground ; While the briar's red candles are lit in the brakes Where the robin besprinkled with glory awakes, Thrilling out his sweet soul to the echoes around.
And the honey-veined maple, beginning to flout In the chill morning breath of the sudden winged blast, Soon its deep-scarlet leaves shakes so ruthlessly out, That like clouds of dead butterflies floating about, They proclaim to the landscape that summer is past."
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