MR. GOSSE'S LATEST POEMS.* Mn. GOSSE began his poetical career

at an early age, and it must be nearly twenty years since he claimed the attention of the public by his first volume of lyrics. On Viol and Flute, of which a new edition was published in 1890, showed much of the passion of youth, something of its extravagance, and not a little of the influence of stronger men. Its faults were obvious, and its merits, if less distinct, were not such as a merely skilful versemaker could claim. There was the feeling of a poet in the volume, if not a poet's inspiration ; and it would have been rash perhaps to pronounce that the tree which bore those early blossoms would not bear golden fruit hereafter.

The volumes published more recently by the poet show significant progress in taste, in feeling, in the perception of Nature, and in the technical niceties of the poetic art. Mr. Gone is one of the most accomplished versemen of the day, and the careful reader will discover many a verbal felicity as he makes his way through the present volume. He is still in the prime of life, but in In Russet and SALr the brilliant turmoil of mid-day is already exchanged for the silence and the shadows of evening. Sobriety is the keynote of the volume. He is growing grey and old, he says ; it is time, at this parting of the ways,—

" To rise from life's rich board before

The host can point me to the door."

And he consoles himself in the belief that.— " Age has yet its prime delight,

For thought survives, and thought is best."

Like all men who have cherished high hopes, and have lived long enough to see how wide is the gulf between aspiration and achievement, Mr. Gosse looks back on the pleasing illusions of his youth with sympathy. They have vanished, but they have not left him desolate, for though the ideal of the poet has been broken, love remains. He may have dis- covered that the Muses' oaths are faithless, and that if success has come, its joy has ceased to charm ; but there is something in life better than ambition, and there is one who will not think less of him for failure. From a beautiful poem, entitled "The Prodigal," we quote the final stanzas :—

"Ah ! take me home ; my pride of pinion broken. My song untuned, my morning-light decayed ! I bring thee back thine own old love for token That I am he for whom it toiled and prayed.

Undone the toil, and vain the intercession !

But, ah ! beneath thy fire for my success There lurked a hungry sense of lost possession, And for my failure thou'lt not love me less.

Dear ! for my sake the streets will ne'er be lighted;

The Senate never ring with cheers for me I Open thy garden-gate to one benighted,

And take me safely back to peace and thee."

Many of Mr. Gosse's lyrics appear to be produced by the art that is due to culture rather than to the fire of inspiration. They gratify the reader, but they do not take him captive ; and it may be questioned if there is one in the volume that has enough of music or of imagination to live long in the memory. One of the most graceful, and the most worthy to be remembered, is the following, in which the writer's craft is less obvious than the poet's feeling :—

"Faint lines of grey are in that hair That was one year ago so fair, So curl'd in gold, so wav'd with light, And still the feathery hours flit by, And we grow older, you and I, And still I wait for your reply,

And all your answer still is flight.

You touch my hand a little while, You pierce me with your flashing smile,

You dart away, away, away !

0 for the skill to hold yen fast, 0 for the art to win at last One sunset hour ere life be past, One thrill before the nerves decay.'

There is no mark of effort here, and ear and heart are alike

satisfied. In "The Wounded Gull," too, the story is told with simplicity, and the apt moral at the end gives it an effective finish. The poem, which we quote in a slightly abridged form, would have pleased Cowper, and might, with

some difference of handling, have been written by him :—

• In Russet and Sascr. By Edmund Goss° London : Heinemann. 1894.

"Along a grim and granite shore With children and with wife I went, And in our face the stiff breeze bore Salt savours and a samphire scent.

So wild the place and desolate, That on a rock before us stood—

All upright, silent, and sedate— Of dark-grey gulls a multitude.

They rose and wheeled around the cape, They shrieked and vanished in a flock; But Jo! one solitary shape Still sentinelled the lonely rock.

With painful care it downward crept ; Its eye was on the rolling sea ; Close to our very feet, it stept Upon the wave, and then—was free.

Calmly it steered, and mortal dread Disturbed nor crest nor glossy plume; It could but die, and being dead, The open sea should be its tomb.

We watched it till we saw it float, Almost beyond our furthest view ; It flickered like a paper boat.

Then faded in the dazzling blue.'

It could but touch an English heart

To find an English bird so brave; Our life-blood glowed to see it start—

Thus boldly on the leaguered wave; And we shall hold, till life departs, For flagging days when hope grows dull, Fresh as a spring within our hearts, The courage of the wounded gull."

Sometimes the singer's view of life is nnpoetically cynical.

Like the poet Gay, he regards life as a jest, and looks upon iiie fellow-creatures as playthings :—

"The streets are full of human toys, Wound up for threescore years ;

Their springs are hungers, hopes, and joys, And jealousies and fears.

They move their eyes, their lips, their hands; They are marvellously dressed; And here my body stirs or stands, A plaything like the rest.

The toys are played with till they fall, Worn out and thrown away. Why were they ever made at all ?

Who sits to watch the play ?"

Sometimes he mistakes ingenuity for poetical fanny, as in his treatment of the grotesque conceit that lovedetters purged with fire are turned to stars :—

"In tears of joy they once were read,

In tears of suffering slowly burned ; And now to stars hung overhead Can each be turned ?

0 leaves too warm to be discreet, 0 panting words that throbb'd too loud, With starry laughter now you meet Behind a cloud!

Alas / the Magians knew your names, Ye ancient lamps of amber light ; 'Tis vanity of passion claims So rare delight.

We might as well lay claim to Mars !- And yet—I surely understand That softest yellow flashing star's Italian hand."

The "Memorial Verses" contain, we think, some of Mr. Geese's best efforts, and nothing can be better than the first stanza—it is a pity that the poet wrote a second—dedicated to Blake :—

"They win who never near the goal, They run who halt on wounded feet ; Art hath its martyrs like the soul, Its victors in defeat."

In his more ambitious efforts—as, for example, in the pleasant dedication to the late Mr. Stevenson, and in the Spenserian stanzas headed " Chattafin "—Mr. G-osse shows he is a master of his instrument, and his diction is poetical in a different sense from that in which the term "poetical diction" has been applied to the versemen of the last century. He has studied his art, and his work—wholly free from the limp feebleness which is unfortunately not always a bar to popularity—would demand respect for its technical skill, even if it had few higher qualities to boast of. That Mr. Gosse possesses some of those qualities we gladly recognise. He has the poet's sense of beauty, his eye for colour, his love of natural objects, his sensibility to the emotions aroused by memory. And when to these gifts may be added a taste that is rarely at fault, enough has been min perhaps in praise of an author whose position in the world of literature is chiefly due to his prose writings.