— Mother and Daughter. By Augusta Webster. (Macmillan and Co.)—Mrs. Webster,
by whose death we lost one of the few genuine poetesses of the day, left at her death an unfinished set of sonnets. The tale of them is not complete, and some of them, we might say most of them, lack the final polish. Yet it was well to publish them. The author's fame will not suffer by them, for she did other work that will show her true literary form. These, too, have much intrinsic merit, and they are instinct with strong, true feeling. Perhaps the first of the series is as good a specimen as can be quoted
Young langhters, and my music! Aye till now The voice can reach no blending minors near ; 'Ti. the bird's trill bee tuse the spring is here, And spring means trilling on a blossomy bough; 'Ds the spring j y that has no why or how,
But see, the sun and hopes not nor can fear—
Spring is so sweet and spring seems all the year. Dear voice, the first-come birds but trill as thou.
Oh music of my heart, be thus for long: Ton soon the spring bird learns the later song; Too soon a sadd:r sweetnes slays content; To soon! There cemes new light en onward day, There comes new perfume o'er a rosier way : Comes not agaiu the young spring joy that went."
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