the Church.  The “May Carols” are poems celebrating the Virgin Mary in her month of May.  For that month, and for the Roman church, Mr. De Vere has done in this volume what Keble did for the festivals of the year, and the English church, in his “Christian Year.”  Catholicism in England has produced no poet since the days of Crashaw so sincere in his piety, so sweet in his melody, so pure in spirit as De Vere.  And the volume is not for Roman Catholic readers alone.  Others may be touched by its religious fervor, and charmed with its beauties of description or of feeling.  It is full and redolent of spring.  The sweetness of the May air flows through many of its verses,—­of that season when

    Trees, that from winter’s gray eclipse
      Of late but pushed their topmost plume,
    Or felt with green-touched finger-tips
      For spring, their perfect robes assume.

    While, vague no more, the mountains stand
      With quivering line or hazy hue;
    But drawn with finer, firmer, hand,
      And settling into deeper blue.

Mr. De Vere is an exquisite student of nature, with fine perceptions that have been finely cultivated.  Take this picture of the lark:—­

    From his cold nest the skylark springs;
      Sings, pauses, sings; shoots up anew;
    Attains his topmost height, and sings
      Quiescent in his vault of blue.

And here is a description of the later spring:—­

    Brow-bound with myrtle and with gold,
      Spring, sacred now from blasts and blights,
    Lifts in a firm, untrembling hold
      Her chalice of fulfilled delights.

    Confirmed around her queenly lip
      The smile late wavering, on she moves;
    And seems through deepening tides to step
      Of steadier joys and larger loves.

The little volume contains many passages such as these.  We have space to quote but one of the poems complete, to show the manner in which Mr. De Vere unites the real, the symbolic, and the external, with the spiritual.  Like most of his poems, it is marked by artistic finish and grace, and many of the lines have a natural beauty of unsought alliteration and assonance.

    When all the breathless woods aloof
      Lie hushed in noontide’s deep repose
    The dove, sun-warmed on yonder roof,
      With what a grave content she coos!

    One note for her!  Deep streams run smooth: 
      The ecstatic song of transience tells. 
    O, what a depth of loving truth
      In thy divine contentment dwells!

    All day with down-dropt lids I sat
      In trance; the present scene foregone. 
    When Hesper rose, on Ararat,
      Methought, not English hills, he shone.

    Back to the Ark, the waters o’er,
      The primal dove pursued her flight: 
    A branch of that blest tree she bore
      Which feeds the Church with holy light.