New Poems. By William Moore, M.A. (Kogan Paul, Trench, and

(Jo. 3s. 6d.)—We find that in this, as in the last volume which came in our way from Mr. Moore's pen, Oxford suggests the most congenial theme. This time it is a social subject with which he deals. "A Modern Hippolytus" is a discourse on celibacy from the academic point of view, in which the poet not irrelevantly turns aside to deliver a philippic against woman, who comes to Oxford— "Choosing. however Minerva frowns, to do Reverse of all that she was born to do."

Mr. Moore is eloquent, and finds for his eloquence appropriate expression in blank verse. This he can write on occasion with much skill. Here is a passage which, by the way, is not a bad achievement for a misogynist :— "A perfect mouth and an enchanted smile I saw ; faint crimson on a moon-blanched cheek Well matched the darksome masses of her hair ; The colour God hath woven for her eyes Night hid; but stars were in them ; stars like those Now sinking on the blue-black verge; or those That zeuithwards in grey and silver swim; Or are they as those brightest, which shall soon Swim in the green gulf of the peeping day; Or in warm gushes of his golden brown?"

ire is too apt, however, to end his lines with a feeble word. " Jonathan " is a poem of considerable merit. (Could David from the Valley of Elah see a star "rising over Oath," which certainly lies to the west I) So is "Evening Hills," which will make its special appeal to Winchester men.—In Castles in the Air (J. M. Dent and Co., 3s. 6d. not) Dean Stubbs is, as might be expected, in lively contact with the present. He touches other things, indeed, as in his fine imita- tion of Early, English verso, " Bryhtnoth's Prayer" (Bryhtnoth the Ealdorman fell at the battle of Malden); but it is here that ho is at his best, witness this sonnet on James Russell Lowell :— " Why don't you let nts die I

Oh no there is no death for thee, great soul, Thou livest still in life of all good things, In memory of thy prophet voice, thy poet wings To soar in Freedom's search, her future goal Of People's rights, thy touch of strong control To guide thy land and ours beside the springs

Of Fellowship, thy master-word that sings Of manhood's faith in History's unread scroll.

No man can die who thus hath wrought for Truth, With Death indeed for him true life begins,

And in that higher realm he surely Wins The Poet's gnerdon of Immortal Youth : Thy King hath called thee, and for heavenly wage Gives nobler work and loftier embaasage."

We must also mention "The Carol of King Canute," and the fimr that follow it.—Mr. John Payne, of whose verse we have two volumes before us, Vigil and Vision (the Villon Society, 6s. net), and Songs of Consolation (Simpkin, Marshall, and Co., 5s. net), essays many themes. His most ambitious effort is, perhaps, "The Descent of the Dove," something in the style of the old miracle plays. There is much that is admirable in it, with some weaknesses. Hero is a passage in which the Virgin soliloquises on the new sympathy which she finds in Nature ; it is excellent till we reach the last line :— " some mystery haloes me, some sweet Strange homage follows on my feet, Whereof, meseems, all creatures wet And I alone, I know it not.

Nay, in the wood-ways to and fro Or in the meadows as I go,

The herbs, the lilies in the grass, The leaves gaze at me. as I pass: The meek sheep raise their eyes to mine;

The knifings and the couehant kin° Lift up their heads to look on me : The woodlands whisper, 'This is she

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I hears murmur: 'There she goes, The maid of mystery, the rose Of reverence without compare, The happy heaven-affected fair I On the whole, we prefer the memorial sonnets. That on E. J. W. Gibb is especially good :— " Comrade, fare well, whose feet the untravelled East Long time in equal measure trod with me I

From that fair land of flowers, where strand and sea Shine with the sun of fable, last not least Of those who for us Westerns spread the feast Of Orient lore and Eastern poesy,

I ne'er shall look upon the like of thee

For love of song and care of bird and beast, The pen is fallen from thine eager hand, Death's finger laid upon the page undone: Yet, in some interstellar Morning-land, I doubt not but thy gentle soul shall find Its earthly dreams fulfilled in heavenly kind,

Where Life and Death, where Love and Truth are one."

—In New Poems, by Ronald Campbell Macfie (John Lane, 5s. net), perhaps the best thing is the somewhat paradoxical argument entitled "To Save my Soul," in which the author protests that he will not dissipate his affections in a general philanthropy, but will reserve them for congenial souls in which he finds the answering note of sympathy. We shall not attempt to epitomise the reasoning, which, indeed, scarcely commends itself to us, but there are line passages in it. Such are the two stanzas that follow :— " And you, my friend of Irish blood,

Wayward as wind among the corn, And evermore a rose in bud, And evermore a day at morn.

And evermore a year at Spring, • And evermore a hope at baud. And evermore a lark on wing, Raining its joy upon the laud."

In a much higher strain is "Vita N1103711," in which the familiar truth that "Love is stronger than Death" is expressed with admirable freshness and force. The same note is struck, and not less happily, in "William Minto."—From the Green Book of the Bards, by Bliss Carman (John Murray, 2s. 6d. net), gives us some quite astonishingly fluent verse which yet fails to satisfy us. The poet loves Nature, and watches her changes with an observant eye. If only he would condescend to use a little more art in expressing his raptures ! Here are some lines—and they might be matched with hundreds of others— which have music and colour, and yet in their expression leave much to be desired :— "The creamy shadow-fretted streets Of some small Caribbean town, Where through the soft wash of the trades The brassy tropic moon looks down;

The palm-frees whispering to the blue That surfs along the coral key ; The brilliant shining droves that fleet Through the bright gardens of the sea.

The crimson-holed Floridian pines Glaring in sunset, where they stand Lifting their sparse, monotonous lines Out of the pink and purple sand."

Mr. Bliss Carman has written too much to make it likely that a critic's admonition will be heeded. We must be content with what we get, and can at least feel that it has always some of the qualities of the verse that lives.—Wo cannot do more than mention The Golden Helm, and other Verse, by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson (Elkin Mathews, 2s. 6d. not), a volume in which the author has collected a number of verses that have appeared, non sine laude, in various periodicals of repute.