There is perhaps no modern book of verse in which a certain melancholy phase of ancient thought is better reproduced than in Ionica, and this gives its slight verses their lasting charm.  We have had numerous resuscitations of ancient manners and landscape in modern poetry since the days of Keats and Andre Chenier.  Many of these have been so brilliantly successful that only pedantry would deny their value.  But in Ionica something is given which the others have not known how to give, the murmur of antiquity, the sigh in the grass of meadows dedicated to Persephone.  It seems to help us to comprehend the little rites and playful superstitions of the Greeks; to see why Myro built a tomb for the grasshopper she loved and lost; why the shining hair of Lysidice, when she was drowned, should be hung up with songs of pity and reproach in the dreadful vestibule of Aphrodite.  The noisy blasphemers of the newest Paris strike the reader as Christian fanatics turned inside out; for all their vehemence they can never lose the experience of their religious birth.  The same thing is true of the would-be Pagans of a milder sensuous type.  The Cross prevailed at their nativity, and has thrown its shadow over their conscience.  But in the midst of the throng there walks this plaintive poet of the Ionica, the one genuine Pagan, absolutely untouched by the traditions of the Christian past.  I do not commend the fact; I merely note it as giving a strange interest to these forlorn and unpopular poems.

Twenty years after the publication of Ionica, and when that little book had become famous among the elect, the author printed at Cambridge a second part, without a title-page, and without punctuation, one of the most eccentric looking pamphlets I ever saw.  The enthusiastic amateur will probably regard his collection incomplete without Ionica II., but he must be prepared for a disappointment.  There is a touch of the old skill here and there, as in such stanzas as this: 

  With half a moon, and clouds rose-pink,
    And water-lilies just in bud,
  With iris on the river-brink,
    And white weed-garlands on the mud,
  And roses thin and pale as dreams,
    And happy cygnets born in May,
  No wonder if our country seems
    Drest out for Freedom’s natal day.

Or these: 

  Peace lit upon a fluttering vein,
  And self-forgetting on the brain;
  On rifts by passion wrought again
  Splashed from the sky of childhood rain,
    And rid of afterthought were we
    And from foreboding sweetly free.

  Now falls the apple, bleeds the vine,
  And, moved by some autumnal sign,
  I who in spring was glad repine
  And ache without my anodyne;
    Oh! things that were!  Oh! things that are! 
    Oh! setting of my double star!_

But these are rare, and the old unique Ionica of thirty years earlier is not repeated.