POETRY.— Wood-notes and Church Bells. By the Rev. R. Wilton,

M.A. (Bell.)—Mr. Wilton's is a volume of verse which it is not easy either to praise or to blame. Nothing can be more natural than that a man of cultivation and feeling should occupy with verse what we may venture to call the sufficient leisure of a country parish. The love of rural scenes, family affections in the joy or grief which they bring, and re- ligions thought and emotion suggest an endless variety of subjects which Mr. Wilton has the power of dealing with only too easily. Sometimes the theme, when it comes close to the writer's heart, lifts him above his average level. For the most part, we find correct verse expressing familiar ideas without much novelty or force. The two happiest efforts in the volume are, in our judgment, " On an Infant's Death," a simple, pathetic little piece, which cannot fail to please any reader ; and " An Incident at the Communion-Table," which we shall quote, as the best specimen we can find, of Mr. 'Wilton's manner :— " At the Lord's Table waiting, robed and stoled, Till all bad knelt around, I saw a sign,—

In the full chalice sudden splendours shine, Azure and crimson, emerald and gold.

I stooped to see the wonder, when, behold!

Within the cup a countenance Divine

Looked upward at me through the trembling wine, Suffused with tenderest love and grief untold.

The comfort of that sacramental token From Memory's page Time never can erase ; The glass of that rich window may be broken, But not the mirrored image of His grace, Through which my dying Lord to me has spoken, At His own Holy Table, face to face."

—Atala, by Gerard (Longmans), is sufficiently described by saying that it is a rendering in verse of M. Chateaubriand's well-known tale of the name. The verse is the ottava rima, which is managed with very creditable skill ; but "Gerard" will not consider it an affront to be told that whatever skill ho may show, readers will still prefer the French of the original. Some of the shorter poems give indications of ability which might have been more pro- fitably employed than on a task which could never have pleased.— We do not know that when we speak of the next volume on our list, The Origin of Evil, a Celestial Drama, by Ter. Misanthrope (Bemrose), we can say anything about ability misapplied. The author is probably as capable of dealing with this theme as with any other.—Maud Vivian, by Walter Reid (Moron), is a drama, and like other dramas when not of the very first order of excellence, very hard reading, which is scarcely relieved by the comedy which Mr. Reid has interwoven with it. Following the practice of Shakespeare, the dramatist mingles prose with his blank verse when the occasion seems to demand it. Might we suggest that the former would have been the more appropriate shape for such language as this ?— " I say, ye precious tools! you ought to know A poacher better than to think him ono.

You've the wrong man, I am the one you want."

The poetical shape of the story is its grand mistake, and it makes it so wearisome that we hardly know whether it would have been worth telling in prose.—Songs for the Weary, by Elizabeth Ayton Godwin (Hodder and Stoughton), is a volume of devotional verse, to which we cannot ascribe much merit beyond that of good intention.—Lyra Christi; Hymns and Verses on the Life, Work, and Sayings of our Blessed Lord, by C. L. Ford, M.A. (Houlston), is a volume of much superior quality. The writer does not pretend to anything like a complete treatment of his subject, but he has studied the Gospel records with carefulness and reverence, and he shows not unfrequently much felicity, and always, we may add, reverence and good taste, in making use of them. The poems are not wrought out with any very elaborate care ; on the contrary, roughnesses and weaknesses of expression are too frequent in them ; but they mostly contain something of thought or sentiment. Such stanzas as the following are not without merit :—

" We cannot track Thee In Thy lowlier walk; Thy higher steps and larger paths are ours; The still small voice of Thy familiar talk Died, unrecorded, with the passing hours.

The household care, that lifting by the hand The maid reviving, felt her pulses faint band The forethought, seeking not from rustic band The mystic rapture of the fasting saint.

"The folded napkin 'mid the earthquake's roar;

The blessings, /le vanished at the board; The curl of smoke that rose upon the shore When that disciple said, 'It is the Lord.'

The kindness condescending still to share All human needs,—but once by angels fed ;

That stooped unchanged our common form to wear,

And ate and drank though risen from the dead.

The easy calmness of His latest hour, With noiseless footsteps treading up the stair 'Unto His higher room: all these have power

To turn our meanest acts to praise and prayer."

—Another little volume of poems which is of average merit is First Fruits and Shed Leaves, by the Author of " The Wreck of the Northfieet." (Edmonston and Douglas.)—The author has a high ideal of what poetry should be, and makes laudable efforts to roach it. If he can hardly be said to write well, yet there are at least signs that ho knows what writing well means.---Thoughts through the Year. By J. E. A. Brown, author of "Lights through a Lattice." (Strahan.)—Here, again, we have verse written with some share of taste and feeling. The thoughts are a sot of sonnets suggested by the Collects of the Anglican Liturgy. The sonnet has difficulties which transcend, it would seem, the writer's skill. Tho versification, accordingly, presents occasional harshnesses and faults. Here is one sonnet of more than average merit, St. Matthias's Day :— 0 At ease among the sunny hills to brood,

Drinking in thymy odours,—this is not, To one who keepeth faith, a shepherd's lot.

Ask him, who in Australian solitude Long silent years has dwelt in dreariest mood; Sweet human voices almost bath forgot ; Still the same duty round the same dull spot, Guarding his Sock from drought or poisonous food.

Ask him who, in all loneliness of heart, Gives of his best, unrecognised, to those Who cannot see the beauty of his gift ; Striving his own soul from the dust to lift, For their and Christ's sake. Lot us, on our part, Pray for a blessing on him as he goes."

—Reddenda Reddita, by F. E. Gretton, B.D. (Bell), is a volume of scholarly Latin verse, with an air of finish about it, to which we turn not without relief from the somewhat lame and imperfect efforts of our English vorsiaors. Tho reader will certainly be glad to have Coleridge's original recalled to his mind, whatever be may think of Mr.

Grotton's version :—

" Tell me on what holy ground

May domestic Peace be found.

Halcyon daughter of the skies, Far on fearful wings she files From the pomp of sceptred state, From the rebel's noisy bate.

In a cottaged vale she dwells Listening to the Sabbath bells.

Still around her steps are seen Spotless Honour's meeker mien; Love, the sire of pleasing fears ; Sorrow, smiling through her tears; And, conscious of the past employ, Memory, bosom-spring of joy."

" Die mild sacrata props qua conlinla terra Gaudeat innocuoa Pax posuisse larea.

Hine precut in nebulas, ut amender retherts heves, Hinc precut abripitur prtepetiore fuga. Effugit et foetus eceptrl et diadema tyranni, Et conjurati junta rauca

Ltetior in casula latitat sub valle reducta,

Qua convene. sacra tinnit arnica die. Hague pererrantea, vultum demises. serenum, Subaequitur gressus intememta Fides.

Maeror ibi lacrymas inter subridet aortas, Tuque, parens placit4 care, timed., Amor. Et dum prateritas fide reminiscitur home

Mnemosyne secum Iteta future Wert."