CURRENT LITERATURE.

POSTRY.—Plays and Poems. By R J. Gilman. (E. Faithfull.)— The plays are so much better than the poems, that it seems a pity the latter were added. In the former, the characters are of a noble caste, and the style, though occasionally faulty, is, on the whole, good. Of the two, we prefer "The Secretary," notwithstanding the glamour which Spanish names and heroic associations cast over the more tragic episode.—Essex : a Play. (Williams and Norgate.)—The time chosen for this short drama is the eventful period of the reign of Queen Elizabeth, which extends from the sending of Lord Essex into Ireland till his death; but the chief interest centres in the develop- ment of the characters of Essex and Bacon. Whether Essex was really as noble as he here appears must be left for deeper students of history to decide, if they can ; but he makes a fine ideal hero, and the contrast between his nobleness, marred as it was by his rash im- petuosity, and the meaner, more cowardly spirit of the yet greater Bacon, is well brought out. We give a part of their last conversation, after Bacon had turned against his former friend :- [Essex, in the Tomer. Bacon justifying himself.

"Believe but this! At first I meant to harm Your cause no whit, but help it Help I did, And hoped you knew it ; took from envy's shafts The point and softened blame. I more and more Had hoped to serve yon; but your most untamed And fiery anger filled my heart with fear.

They urged me on to shun your deadly hate ; And where was other shelter ? None for me !

Essex.—You made your fear a cloak for worse desire!

A devil's wash, to white a darker stain! By Heaven's light, I rather choose to die, The prey of passions, wrecked by storms of soul, Than coldly gamble with them ; make my heart A box of loaded dice, that turn for gain.

Bacon.-0, hear me, bear me!

Essex—This is best indeed!

But, friend, the time is short; and where I go Is pardon turned to pity, faith to sight Of human hearts, and all that warps their will To choose the nobler. I have done you wrong,— Have quenched your smoking flax in floods of scorn. Forgive the fault, and let it burn anew !

Bacon.-0, this is hell ! To bear a heart above

Its daily walk; to own the just and true In thought, in act the false ; not even vile In manly fashion, knaves that loathe their sin !

0, pardon, pardon! All besides is dross To me for ever. Let me hear you speak That blessed word, then fly this hateful coil, And seek some quiet nook to purge my shame!

Essex.—Most freely, Bacon, have I pardoned all ! Yet lives are mended not by change of scene,

But cluttige of purpose in the scenes of old.

Your place is in the world ! By want of skill I there did fail, with ends, methinks, were not Ignoble wholly. Yours be nobler far,

And skill will not be wanting."

There is a slight obscurity occasionally in the language, but not suf- ficient to detract much from the merit of the composition, from a literary point of view. From a dramatic point, it might appear of consequence.—Poems, by W. T. Washburn (Jesse Haney and Co., New York), are of the sensuous order, abounding in epithets deemed appropriate to the style, but we can find no original or tangible image of beauty throughout. The print and paper are bad, too, but we fear they are good enough for the poems, which, being the product of a young and vigorous literature, ought to have at least freshness and life.—Songs and Romances, by T. C. Irwin (M. H. Gill and Son, Dublin), contains many graphic pictures, and some graceful ones; but in the interest of the writer as well as of the public, to whom several more volumes of his are promised, we do wish to warn him against the coinage of words. Such as " skansly," " skirr," "squawk," and "avogling," applied to rivulets, have a truth of sound about them which almost makes them pardonable ; but " aureate " (occurring

[He stands in thought.

[Farther on.

so often), " securedly," " enspelled," "ebrious," the two adjectives "promont " and " amort," " twinks," "smoothes " (a noun), and " swoome," rhymed with "plume," scarcely justify themselves. Surely only kings among poets, like kings in the State, can be permitted to coin.—Verses, mostly written in India, by G. H. T. (C. Kegan Paul and Co.), are bright and readable, and one or two of the pieces rise considerably above the usual level of such compositions. " Matris Amor," for real feeling, simply expressed ; "Some Persons," for racy delineation ; and "Very Tired," for delicate tenderness, may be especially commended.—Berthold, and other Poems, by Meta Orred. (Smith, Elder, and Co.)—Berthold, the first poem in this collection, tells the horrible legend of the origin of the Vox Humana stop. The legend of Lohengrin, too, has a sad, weird interest ; but not all the interest of such old stories, nor all wild, poetical epithets strung in greatest profusion, nor dim suggestions of mighty passion, can make true poetry. Something more is wanted, if we are to take it to our hearts at once and for ever as a rounded perfect thing, or even to be haunted by it as a thing of beauty, not perfect, perhaps, but so instinct with true life and love that it can belong only to the great domain of song. —There is something of this latter feeling in thinking of Through Death to Life, by G. Barlow (Tinsley and Co.), a volume of musical, mystical sonnets, which must be read as a Whole, if they are to be at all understood and enjoyed. Some of them, if detached, would even be open to the charge of impious blasphemy. We venture to give two, as illustrative of the author's manner, which blends, all through, the sensuous with the spiritual, with a certain quaint beauty, and a power which does not need the frequent italics to enforce it :— THE DEAD FLowEas.

Think of the gracious blossoms that are dead.

Think not of men and women for a time, But dream of grand buds in some torrid clime, Roses with sweet lips marvellously red, And many a fair magnolia's luscious head, And many a lily, and many a violet :— Think of the pale world-blossoms with regret, Weep for the meadow-sweet whose bloom is fled; Weep for the blossoms that have perished sinco The first red rose shed petals on the grass Of this our planet: weep for the bright mass Of silver petals—weep not for a prince Or king :—for once, forget humanity.

And weep that not one flower death's grasp can floe."

"THE CROWN.

In a great vision, I beheld the Lord.

I saw his robes, his sceptre and his rings, And all his heavenly store of wondrous things,— His garments, and his jewels, and his sword ; But what is this that some bright seraph brings, This wonder girded by a golden cord ?

Surely it is the crown the King of Ringo Alone doth wear,—chief marvel of his hoard.

Eager I looked,—my soul was in a glow, For surely, thought I, this high God, who scorns To mingle with the earth, more white than snow, More pore than woman, some strange wreath adorns;— I yearned and looked—and looked again—for lo !

The crown was not of roses, but of thorns."

—Feuillentorte, and other Poems. By Percy Gordon. (Longmans.)— There may be eyes which can see beauty in these effusions, and there may be ears to whom their music is harmonious ; but for ourselves, we must confess to colour-blindness and deafness which lasted from the beginning to the end of the neat-looking little volume.—Irene Floss, and other Poems, by Harriette Smith (F. Warne and Co.), notwithstanding its romantic title, contains chiefly didactic verses, some of which have appeared before in religious magazines. The writer calls her own "a weak, but earnest strain." Why, then, does she select such mighty subjects as "Thoughts of God and Life ?" No earnestness can undo the harm which weak writing on such august themes may do. For earnest verse-writers of limited powers, them is a wide field in simple ballads dealing with every-day incidents in a reverent spirit, which would be gladly read by many of our cottagers, if they were put within reach, instead of the dry prose or trashy tale which is too often their only choice.