POETHY. — Songs of the Christian Creed (English Text), by H. M.
McGill, D.D. (Pickering), will be welcomed, as the English version of its classical companions and forerunners; but this volume will have, we think, a special interest for those who, having an intelligent interest in that most catholic appendage of the Universal Church, its hymns, are yet not scholars enough to appreciate the originals. To such the " Notes " prefixed to this volume will prove peculiarly acceptable. The alpha- betical arrangement of the hymn-writers' names produces some curious juxtapositions, which at first provoke a smile, but in a moment suggest the thought of the exquisite variety in unity of the Christian com- munity.—In the Resurrection, and other Poems, by F. Atkinson, M.A. (Skeffington and Co.), we have the productions of a cultivated, earnest, and devout mind. Still, like so much of modern art, there is nothing here which takes us captive once and for ever,—rather, we must exclaim, as in so many a picture-gallery, "So much good work, yet nothing great 1" The simple beauty of the Scripture narrative adds to the difficulty of reproducing its incidents so as to enhance their attractiveness. The walk to Emmaus is an instance in point, forming as it does a part of the first and longest poem in this volume. Cowper touched it incidentally, in one of the best passages be ever wrote, beginning, "It happened on a solemn eventide," but the dramatic form seems to produce a less happy result. There is some- thing of good and tender emotion in the verses of Mary's hymn at the Sepulchre, but one is tempted to ask one's-self with regard to this and all the rest of these poems, others of which challenge comparison with Keble, whether poetic prose would not be a fitter vehicle for the thoughts than prosaic poetry ? There is that indescribable something wanting which, even if the form be faultless, can alone turn a sermon into a poem.—The same remarks apply, in a different degree, to a volume of poems entitled, Life Thoughts and Lays from History. By Benjamin Goonch. (Provost and Co.)--All its subjects are interesting, and be- tokening right and pure sympathies on the part of the writer, and yet, though the verse is not unmusical, the simple lines "On a Dead Sky-
lark "are better than the more ambitious efforts. There is a beauty of tender pathos in the line which closes this verse :—
"Snatched from that gentle, nursing care. From grass, and sun, and sky, To other home and stranger fare, What could's( thou do but die 7" —In George Fullers, Duke of Buckingham, by Welber.) St. Clair Baddeley (Hardwick° and Bogue), we have a short dramatic poem, which deals with one of the earliest episodes in the long struggle which won for Englishtnon most of their dearly prized liberties and rights. It is written in good English, and with fair historical accuracy; yet if, in order to excite any kind of sympathy for its chief personage, it be necessary to make him tell of his mother's hateful ways and of his own hatred towards her, one braid the sympathy, after all, too painfully purchased. There is also, in regard to all such poems, the difficulty of deciding whether it be allowable to take the incidents of three hundred years ago, and try to make them live again in the language and almost with the surroundiugs of to-day, or whether an attempt should be made to have everything in keeping oven the similes and chance rem:aka. Surely in the reign of Charles I. the words "of mon that should be treading at a mill" could be in no one's mouth. In the days when such a man as Solden could be thrown into prison by such a man as Villiers, the treadmill for lower criminals had not been invented. It was easier to hang them, and forget them. The sonnet to Sir John Eliot, with all the writer's warm admiration, is yet not worthy of the theme, but then only once in a century or so does a poet live who could do justice to a man like him. It is something to admire him worthily.—In Mosses, by M. F. Bridgman, M.D. (A. Williams and Co., Boston), we have, as it seems, the product of a physi- cian's leisure-time, but though there is a show of erudition about these small poems and the prose criticisms which accompany them, it was a dangerous thing to challenge comparison with such noble passages as are prefixed as mottos; and coming from America, the descriptions of Nature, and especially the allusions to birds and plants, are unmeaning to English ears. A " bobolink " is, so to speak, naturalised here, but who knows what a " veory "is ?—In a very different vein aro Songs of the Rail, by Alex. Anderson (Simpkin, Marshall, and Co.), stirring, genuine poems, though with a sad monotone of slaughter running through them. We fear, too, that in England, at any rate, the" follow- workers " to whom the book is dedicated would be sadly puzzled by the classical allusions in which their better-read Scotch comrade indulges so freely. The sentiments of the more didactic pieces are noble and pure, but to most people, the pathetic touches in such as "Jim's Whistle "and "Nottman " will most powerfully appeal. This last is the only tale which ends in joy, but readers must not be deterred by the horrors from g ring on to the later penile, some of which, as "The Violet," have a special bc:auty of their own.—Poems, by J. Sykes (Whittaker and Co.), is a book of surface-writing, which, if worthy to be read at all, is only fit for the "autumn day at Brighton," which is the subject of some of its verses. We are sorry to observe that the book is the "third series." Surely we do not need an octavo volume to record such facts as this, on page 191 :— " They who in gas-lit rooms their vigils keep. Oft racking head-ache earn, instead of sloop
or to have our envy raised by the linos,—
- When cares annoy and Jarring thoughts perplex, Oar desk we open, and regard our cheques."
Song and Sense, from Uncle Sam, by Thomas Nicholson (Charing. Cross Publishing Company), purports to be a collection from American newspapers, and with its mingling of prose and verse reminds one of the " annuals " which graced our grandmothers' tables, minus the steel engravings. It contains, besides some racy infantino fun, much as "The little boy that wished "and "Generosity," some of Whittier's religious poems; but the one beginning "Immortal love for over full" is already in more than one of our hymn-books; and Miss Proctor, the daughter of Barry Cornwall, and the friend of Charles Dickens, must be claimed by the mother-country, though we are glad her verses have travelled to America, and back again.
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