ENGLAND IN TIME OF WAR. * THE author of Balder and

The Boman belongs to the class of poets who " seem to think that not to write prose is cer- tainly to write poetry." The modern form of this school origi- nated with Browning ; and though the claim of ability made for him and some of his collaborate-tin by their friends may be ..ranted, it must be granted as much through faith as understand- ing. Someof sweetness, many of power, will be found in their works; but the greater portion of their poetry is either dreamily vague, leaving an impression on the reader's mind illus- trative of the " omne ignotum," &c., or heavily prosaic, or full of Italian-looking conceits of beauty and effect, which only minds constituted like their parent can appreciate. What renders the failures of this school more provoking is, that they seem to arise less from mistaken views of art, or even from an indisposition to bestow the labour requisite to develop thoughts poetically, than from an overweening self-reliance, and a determination to make people admire,—which perhaps can be managed, though it is im- possible.to please us against our will.

Mr. DobelPs England in Time of War is a great advance upon his Balder. That "poem," in fact, was utterly unreadable save by the esoteric few ; and they could only justify their praise by faith not sight—by something there, though it could not be shown. The limited length and subject of songs and miscel- laneous poems, the instinctive sense teaching that what is short must be made more clear and finished than a long piece, have not only resulted in greater distinctness, but often, we think, in more condensed strength. Readers will differ as to the truth of the conclusions in this sonnet on diplomacy, or even as to the poetical truth of the images : there can be no doubt of its laconic power.

"LIBERTY TO M. LE DIPLOMATE.

Thou fool, who treatest with the sword, and not With the strong arm that wields it ! Thou insane, Who seest the dew-drops on the lion's inane, But dost forget the lion ! Oh thou sot, Hugging thy drunken dream ! Thou idiot, Who makest a covenant against the rain With autumn-leaves ! Thou atheist, who dost chain"- This miserable body that can rot And think'st it Me! Fool ! for the swordiess Shall strike thee dead. Madman ! the lio And with one shake is dry. Sot ! the

Shall sober even thee. Idiot ! one And thou art bare. Atheist ! the rse is• • thine,

But lo, the unfettered soul imm rtal and divine!"

This clearness is not the exception; but there are passages of vagueness, or of a partial obscigity, which when the reader has cleared away do not always revay him for the trouble of reaching the meaning. There are also irosaic parts ; many bits of conceits in the sense of forced or fele/felted thoughts ; and. frequent repe- titions of phrases simile to a chorus, but without more mean- ing than attaches to " tolifle rol tel de rol lol." Still, for exoteric readers, the book is a teat improvement over its predecessors ; and the poetical spirit,/if not perfectly developed, has at least a more distinct form.

Although consisting of many and various topics, the whole work is conceived i one perviviing idea. The events of the war and the war itself/ are not directly treated. The subject is—how the war affects home opinions, home feelings, and domestic in- terests, or some/looser connexions, (for Mr. Dobell, in his search after nature, it not so strict as he might have been in his topics . or their handling). The. fundamental idea of the collection is not, indeed, always adhered to. A few of the poems do not seem to have any relation to war ; others are not peculiarly connected with it. The bulk of them however, bear upon the war, and some of its incidents are introduced, though not with strict ac- curacy. In. "An Evening Dream," for instance, a Scotch of- ficer's sister sees the battle of Inkerman by means of second- sight ; the real home landscape and accessories forming a contrast to the field of battle as beheld in vision. Sometimes the poet takes a lighter tone. "A Health to the Queen" seems intended to exhibit in a rollicking way some of the endless variety of opinions touching the war ; each stanza ending with a rattling sort of chorus.

"(y cousin, the Yankee, last night did his best

To prove the Czar—bless you—'s no worse than the rest.'

We wheeled the decanters out on to the lawn,

And he argued—and spat—in a circle till dawn. 'Quoth I, if the game 'a half as thick as you say, •

The more need for hounds, lad ! Hunt 's up ! r kaway !'

Soho blow trumpeter ! Trumpeter, trumpeter.

Tally ho, trumpeter, over the ditch—

Over the ditch, boys, the broad ditch of Dover ! "

• Znatand in Time of War. By Sydney Dobai, Author of" Balder," and " The Roman." Published by Smith and Elder.

wakes, breaks

"The Young Man's Song" contrasts the lofty aspirations of science, philosophy, and philanthropy, with the actual practice of the world. The moral hopes, the realized mechanical improve- ments, are poetically described—as the railway.

"Who comes who comes, o'er mountains laid,

Vales lifted, straightened wars? 'Tis he ! the mightier horse we made To serve our nobler days !

But now, unheard, I saw afar His cloud of windy mane, Now, level as a blazing stall, He thunders through the plain !

The life he needs, the food he loves, This cold earth bears no more ; He fodders on the eternal groves That heard the dragons roar, Strong with the feast he roars and runs, And, in his maw unfurled, Evolves the folded fires of suns That lit a grander world !

You bird, the swiftest in the sky, Before him sprang, but he Has passed her as a wind goes by A struggler in the sea.

With forward beak and forward blows She slides back from his side, While ever as the monster With needless power and pride, Disdainful from his fiery jaws He snorts his vital heat

And, easy as his shadow, draws,

Long-drawn, the living street.

He's gone ! Methinks that over him, Like Curtius in the abyss, I see great gulphs close rim to rim, And Past and Future kiss !"

After the morals and mechanics are exhausted, we come to the actual, in a touch.

"So sang a youth of glorious blood.

Below, the wind-hawk shook her wings, And lower, in its kingdom, stood A tower of ancient kings.

Above, the autumn sky was blue, Far round the golden world was fair, And, gun by gun, the ramparts blew A battle on the air."