Atoms we are, we men:  of the myriad sorrow around us
  Our littleness little grasps; and the selfish in that have no part: 
  Yet time with the measureless chain of a world-wide mourning hath
     wound us;
  History but counts the drops as they fall from a Nation’s heart.”

One of the most vigorous poems in the volume is that called “The Bard Ethell,” and which represents this bard of the thirteenth century telling in his old age of himself and his country, of his memories, and of the wrongs that he and his land had alike suffered:—­

  “I am Ethell, the son of Conn;
    Here I live at the foot of the hill;
  I am clansman to Brian, and servant to none;
    Whom I hated, I hate; whom I loved, love still.”

Here is a passage from near the end of this poem:—­

  “Ah me, that man who is made of dust
    Should have pride toward God!  ’T is an angel’s sin! 
  I have often feared lest God, the All-Just,
    Should bend from heaven and sweep earth clean,
  Should sweep us all into corners and holes,
  Like dust of the house-floor, both bodies and
    souls;
  I have often feared He would send some
    wind
  In wrath, and the nation wake up stone-blind! 
  In age or youth we have all wrought ill.”

But a large part of the volume before us is made up of poems that do not belong to this Irish series, and the readers of the “Atlantic” will find in it several pieces which they will recognize with pleasure as having first appeared in our own pages, and which, once read, were not to be readily forgotten.  Mr. De Vere has expressed in several passages his warm sympathy in our national affairs, and his clear appreciation of the great cause, so little understood abroad, which we of the North are engaged in upholding and maintaining.  And although in these days of war there is little reading of poetry, and little chance that this volume will find the welcome it deserves and would receive in quieter times in America, we yet trust that it will meet with worthy readers among those who possess their souls in quietness in the midst of the noise of arms, and to such we heartily commend it.

A Book about Doctors.  By J. CORDY JEAFFRESON, Author of “Novels and Novelists,” “Crewe Else,” etc., etc.  New York:  Rudd & Carleton. 12mo.

Mr. Jeaffreson is not usually either a brilliant or a sensible man with pen in hand, albeit he dates from “Rolls Chambers, Chancery Lane.”  He is apt to select slow coaches, whenever he attempts a ride.  His “Novels and Novelists” is a sad move in the “deadly lively” direction, and his “Crewe Rise” has not risen to much distinction among the reading crew.  In those volumes of departed rubbish he sinks very low, whenever he essays to mount; but his dulness is innoxious, for few there be who can say, “We have read him.”  His “Book about Doctors” is the best literary venture he has yet made.  It is not a dull volume.  The anecdotes so industriously collected keep attention alert, and one feels inclined to applaud Mr. Jeaffreson as the leaves of his book are turned.