POETRY. — Poems. By Matthias Barr. (Barr and Co.)—Consider- ing the dearth
of anything of snrpassing excellence, ono is not surprised that these verses should have reached a fifth edition, as they have a pleasing musical rhythm, although the rhymes aro occasionally faulty ; as, for instance, " holy " with " folly," "lyre" with "bower." They have, too, a certain beauty of their own, not the vividness which genius bestows, nor the vigour produced by originality of thought, but a something which ought to make them acceptable to those who are, perforce, dwellers amidst the ugly uniformity of our great cities. Yet one prefers the first and longest poem and some of the ballads, to those called "City Poems." In the latter, like so many of his brother - artists of the brush, the author constantly reproduces one figure, and as that happens to be one of the saddest, the effect is so painful as hardly to be compensated for by his. true and good feelings on the subject. We should like to quote the poem called "Caged," on page 105, but it is too long and cannot he divided, so we content ourselves with commending it to our readers.—In Songs of Many Seasons, by G. Jemmett Brown (Bell and Son), we have (I, volume of pleasing verso. Some of the poems are good stories graphically told, and with a musical wording which gratifies the oar. There is an equality of merit in them which makes selection difficult, but which would also prevent disappointment, if the book be taken up in the chance moments for which it is so thoroughly suited. There is also a peculiar pleasure in finding a poem shorter than one expected it to be, which is the ease. with several in this book.—Leries and Landscapes, by Guy Roslyn._ Tim landscapes are pretty, the lyrics are iuoffensive ; there is oven a certain gentleness and grace about them, but the author must forgive us for craving something mere ; something that haunts us, something we cannot forgot. Even homely landscapes bestow it upon us; we have been eonscious of it in city streets, but hero, where we long to find it, we sigh in vein. We can only hope that some readers may enjoy the little book, oven without these absent gleams.. --Switzerland, and other Poems. By the Rev. J. F. lloae. (C.. West, Gloucester.)—A small volume of poems, which are far better in intent than in execution, indeed, the author seems to need remind- ing that the love of Alpine scenery and the desire to describe it do not make one a poet.—Peessmis in Lakeland, amid P001118 in Dialect, by W. Wilson (Simpkiu, Marshall, and Co.), is a neat little, book of verse, to hold in the hand on a holiday trip, although, as is so often the ease, the most ambitious effort in it seems the least success- fill; but it may be that the title has prejudiced us against it, as we have a deeply-rooted conviction that true poets do not keep it Pegasus, or, at any mite, never think of him, but sing because they must. Yet these poems in dialect are well written, as far as one.not "to. the manner born" can judge. They really do transport us to the Fells, and create an atmosphere of secluded life which those strong-headed old farmers breathe, with their good common-sense views of many things. in the world beyond, and yet thoir strangely disproportioned interest in the commonest occurrences within their own peculiar range,— Hu»ianily and tho Man. By William Sharpe, M.D.Q.U.I. (Simpkin, Marshall, and Co.)—This poem, written in India, is the work of a daring man, for he must be one who could choose such a subject,. write on it in blank verse, and put SUMO 111108 from Milton on the first page !--Weak Moments. By X. 0. 0. (Tinsley.)—The writer wisely dedicates this little volume to his wife, for we may hope that those who love us can bear with even our weakest moments ; but why should the public share their burden P Has not each one of that public his own and his family's weak moments to bear, and are they- not more than enough P—The Ring of Amethyst. By Alice W. Rol- lins. (Putnams; New York.)—A ring of amethyst is a thing of beauty, and this book of poems, by an American lady, is worthy of its name. There is high and noble sentiment and charming expres- sion in an its varied pages. We give two of the sonnets only, the- first a religiously devout one :—
" ANSWERED PahrEn.
"Father, whose tenderness has wrapped me round In a groat need—to what shall I compare Strength thou hest sent in answer to my prayer P Not to the help some falling vino has found, That trailing listless en the frozen ground Clings suddenly to some high trellis there, Lifting itself once more into the air, With timid tendrils on the lattice woubd. Bather to help the drooping plant ins won, That, weary with the beating of the rains, Feels quickening in its own responsive veins The sudden shining of aslistant sun. When froin within the strength and gladness are, My soul knows that its help comes from afar."
The other is perhaps less beautiful than the love-song called "FbI- lllniont," which immediately precedes it in tho book ; but it is more adapted for quotation :—
" There will be sileness hero, love, in the slow,
Long, summer months, when there are none to break
The stillness with the laugh of those win) wake New-horn each day to joy and yet I know The stillness cannot be so still, or grow So deeply 1401111(110FS, but that for my sake
The monoory-hatinted, lonely rlYMUS will take
Some echo of my vanished voice; even so, Amid the scones to which I have no choice But go without thee, dearest, there will be No gaiety so gay, no glint, light glee Wherein with others I, too, must rejoice, But through it all may heart will make for me Silence, wherein I shall but hanstily voice."
There is in these poems, all through, an ooho, but not an imitatious of Mrs. Browning, if one may make such a distinction ; and if they do not quite rise to the heights reached by our English poetess, her roughness of manner are avoided, while one is reminded of her deep tenderness and original metaphors.—Fancies and Fragments. By "F. H. M." (Provost and Co.)—When we say those verses are reprints from a country paper, we presume one in Herefordshire, and that, being the production of a scholar, they are above the ordinary average of such contributions to newspaper literature, we luive sufficiently indicated their value for all, except the few who may be interested exceptionally in the writer or in the county of Hereford. " Our Birthday'' is one of the best in the °elk:diem—Drifting, by the Hon, and liev. Trevor Kenyon (Skeffington and Sons), is, also a small book of verses, the production of a clergyman and a scholar ; hut notwithstanding one or two clever, humorous pieces,. which are amusing, scarcely what ono ought to expect from such a source, and the preface completely baffles .our comproheusions We 'cannot understand how it could be that "poetry is the interpretation in truth, of prose, which is original falsehood." If it be what the writer seems to mean, this is a very serious consideration for those who only write in prose. We wonder ho could oven venture on a . short preface himsolf. His poetry is certainly more intelligible, and the lines on Shakespeare, written after the fashion of Southoy's Lodore," are very good, in their way.
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