On the Sea - Board, and other Poems. By Susan K. Phillips.
(Mac- millan.)—It may seem ungracious to object to the bulk of a volume which shows throughout its contents signs of a mire and tender poetical feeling, or to wish away any of a number of poems all•of which are, in their degree, deserving of praise. Yet it was certainly a mistake to put together more than two hundred " occasional poems." A longer effort, with a few shorter pieces ; or, if this could not be, a selection of the very best out of the author's portfolio, would have had a better chance of success. The "sea pieces," for instance, such as that which gives a title to the volume, " The Fisherman's Funeral," `i The Fisherman's Summons," " Me and My Mate : a Whitby Story," &c., would have made a very effective collection. These have a marked character of their own and, relieved with one or two contrasts, such as the spirited ballad, "The Housekeeper's Story," or the description of inland landscape which "In Juno" gives us, would hold the atten- tion of readers who may find the volume as it stands too long for them. Wo quote one of the most spirited of the poems The BURIED CHIME.
"Under the cliffs at Whitby, when the great tides landward flow, Under the cliffs at Whitby, when the great winds landward blow, When the long billows heavily roll o'er the harbour bar, And tho blue waves Huh to silver 'mid the softwoods on the Sear, When the low thunder of the surf calls down the hollow shore, And, 'mid the eaves at Rattiness, the baffled breakers roar ;
Under the cliffs at Whitby, whose will stand alone,
Where in the shadow of the Nab the eddies swirl and moan, When to the pulses of the deep, the flood-tide rising swells, Will hear, amid its monotone, the clash of bidden bells. Up from the heart of ocean the mellow music peals, Where the sunlight makes his golden path, and the sea-mew flits and wheels. For many a chequered century, mitired by flying time; The bells, no human fingers touch, have rung their hidden chime,
Since the gallant ship that brought them, for the abbey on the height,
Struck and foundered in the offing, with her snored goal in sight. And the man who dares on Hallowe'en ou the black Nab to watch, Till the rose-light on St. Hilda's shrine the midnight moonbeams catch, And culls his sweetheart by her name, as o'er the sleeping seas The echo of the burled bells comes floating on the breeze, Ere another moon on Hallowe'en her eerie rays has shed, Will hear his wedding peal ring out from the church tower on the head."
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