2ND.—­semi-chorus

Ah! but favour extreme shown to one
Among equals who yet stand apart,
Awakeneth, say ye, if naturally,
The demons—­jealousy, envy, hate,—­
In the breast of those passed by.

It is a curious thing that when minor poets write choruses to a play they should always consider it necessary to adopt the style and language of a bad translator.  We fear that Mr. Bohn has much to answer for.

God’s Garden is a well-meaning attempt to use Nature for theological and educational purposes.  It belongs to that antiquated school of thought that, in spite of the discoveries of modern science, invites the sluggard to look at the ant, and the idle to imitate the bee.  It is full of false analogies and dull eighteenth-century didactics.  It tells us that the flowering cactus should remind us that a dwarf may possess mental and moral qualities, that the mountain ash should teach us the precious fruits of affliction, and that a fond father should learn from the example of the chestnut that the most beautiful children often turn out badly!  We must admit that we have no sympathy with this point of view, and we strongly protest against the idea that

   The flaming poppy, with its black core, tells
   Of anger’s flushing face, and heart of sin.

The worst use that man can make of Nature is to turn her into a mirror for his own vices, nor are Nature’s secrets ever disclosed to those who approach her in this spirit.  However, the author of this irritating little volume is not always botanising and moralising in this reckless and improper fashion.  He has better moments, and those who sympathise with the Duke of Westminster’s efforts to provide open spaces for the people, will no doubt join in the aspiration—­

   God bless wise Grosvenors whose hearts incline,
   Workmen to fete, and grateful souls refine;

though they may regret that so noble a sentiment is expressed in so inadequate a form.

It is difficult to understand why Mr. Cyrus Thornton should have called his volume Voices of the Street.  However, poets have a perfect right to christen their own children, and if the wine is good no one should quarrel with the bush.  Mr. Thornton’s verse is often graceful and melodious, and some of his lines, such as—­

   And the wise old Roman bondsman saw no terror in the dead—­
   Children when the play was over, going softly home to bed,

have a pleasant Tennysonian ring.  The Ballad of the Old Year is rather depressing.  ‘Bury the Old Year Solemnly’ has been said far too often, and the sentiment is suitable only for Christmas crackers.  The best thing in the book is The Poet’s Vision of Death, which is quite above the average.

Mrs. Dobell informs us that she has already published sixteen volumes of poetry and that she intends to publish two more.  The volume that now lies before us is entitled In the Watches of the Night, most of the poems that it contains having been composed ’in the neighbourhood of the sea, between the hours of ten and two o’clock.’  Judging from the following extract we cannot say that we consider this a very favourable time for inspiration, at any rate in the case of Mrs. Dobell: