SOME GOOD VERSE.*

THESE are genuinely fresh and tender poems, not, indeed, of the higher kind of originality, not often marked by that force

and depth of imaginative power which make the reading a sort of era in the mind of the reader, but still entirely free from the effort, the affectation, the imitativeness, which mark the great majority of the poetic endeavours of the day. Some- times they are deficient in clearness of drift ; sometimes they repeat the same note until it seems to lose its significance and effect. But they are never deficient in genuine emotion, and never deficient in that passionate love of the beauty of the external world which seems to grow more and more distinct in the hearts of men as the crowding of the world diminishes century by century the opportunities for its fullest gratifica- tion. Tenderness is the specific emotion which seems to be most perfectly and most variously expressed in these poems, —expressed with the most delicate originality, and the most artless beauty. Take, for instance, this delightful little cradle-song :-

" Hushaby ! the end of the day

Drops into dark, and the roses turn grey; Bird-songs are silent, and footsteps are few, Night falls so softly for me and for you ; Sleep !

Hushaby the lily-buds white

Shut up their secrets in shadows of night ; Down in the meadow the flow'rs blue and red, Silent together, sweet head laid to head, Sleep !I akij

Hushaby ! the brook as it goes

Whispers a story that nobody knows ; Out of the moonlight the angels let fall Beautiful dreamlets for little ones all—

Sleep ! "

That is certainly not " composed ; " it has grown like a flower itself in the author's heart, and though it is the song which expresses the feeling of the singer, not the feeling of the child for whom it is sung, it is none the less restful and soothing for that. Again, in its expression of tenderness both happy and sad, what can be more genuine and more perfectly artless than this ?—

" A FLOWER.

.Come, little blossom, the cold is past, Waken up and be glad at last,

• Poems. By M. C. Giffington and A. E. Gillington. London : Elliot Stook.

Out of the brown earth peeping ! Many a leaf is born to-day Of the lovely marriage of rain and ray— Laugh while you may !

For the April skies are weeping.

Ope, little blossom, and loose apart Your milk-white robes from your golden heart, A light in the leaf-shade making ! This is the season when bees may woo, And butterfly lovers come courting you, Down in the dew, When the summer dawn is breaking.

Hide, little blossom, beneath the snow ! Now is never a time to blow, In the dusk of the year's declining ; Into the night must all things wend, Leaf and blossom, lover and friend— And so an end, While the frosty stars are shining."

There the music of the verse is at least as delightful as the tenderness of the thought, and the former not only expresses, but enhances as it should, the feeling that inspired it. There is nothing, indeed, in the little volume which exceeds this in its

flower-like beauty and sweetness. Where these writers fail is when they attempt anything of a too ambitious kind. For example, the "Incantation" on page 50 seems to us a laboured attempt to express something which either does not deserve expression at all,—as it is an attempt to strain human nature beyond its power,—or, at any rate, should only be expressed by those whose hearts do really beat wildly against the limits imposed on them by human destiny. And we should doubt greatly whether the heart of either of these authors does kick against the pricks of human finiteness in that fashion, for the poem is certainly a failure. And there is an ambitious effort of' the same kind in the poem called " Dawn," which makes too. much use in the last lines of each verse of " apt alliteration's artful aid," and thereby extinguishes all the simplicity and genuineness which is the chief charm of this little book. When we are told of " the pulsing passionate light " and "the fathom- less farthest glow," we know that the writer is on tip-toe. Now the greatest beautyand distinction of these little poems are that their authors are so very seldom on tip-toe, that they seem to sing out of their own hearts, and not out of any ambition to touch the skies.

But this occasional straining is by no means common ;

indeed, it is very rare. The only defect of any marked kind in this pleasant and taking little volume is a certain monotony of feeling. The love of Nature is eager;and the vision of. Nature is living enough throughout, and the love-songs,

whether of the West or East, are full of warmth and depth. But we should like a little more variety of subject, and little less of the vibrating chord of melancholy passion. The poem called "A Blue-Stocking" is quite a refreshment amidst so many examples of a sustained "lyrical cry."

One looks for a little less pressure at times on the sympathetic nerve, for a little more playfulness, a few more intellectual studies, for a rather greater variety of moods. Of pensive and passionate attitudes of mind towards the earth and sea and sky, there is no lack, and for the most part these are all painted with freshness and force. But we feel as if poets who can enter so well into the

hopes and fears and yearnings which associate themselves most closely with the pageant of natural beauty, should be able also to paint the more reflective and the more lively fancies

which carry us out of the region of pure passion, and present to us some of the poetic aspects of those many sides of human character which are not saturated with emotion, but are pene- trated by humour, irony, or speculative wonder. In studies of this kind, this little book is deficient. In lyrics of the heart, and especially in the love of nature, it is rich.