The roaming, tentless wind
      No rest can ever find—­
   From east, and west, and south, and north
   He is for ever driven forth! 
      From the chill east
   Where fierce hyaenas seek their awful feast: 
      From the warm west,
   By beams of glitt’ring summer blest.

Nothing could be much worse than this, and if the line ’Where fierce hyaenas seek their awful feast’ is intended to frighten us, it entirely misses its effect.  The ode is followed by some sonnets which are destined, we fear, to be ludibria ventis.  Immortality, even in the nineteenth century, is not granted to those who rhyme ‘awe’ and ‘war’ together.

Mr. Isaac Sharp’s Saul of Tarsus is an interesting, and, in some respects, a fine poem.

   Saul of Tarsus, silently,
   With a silent company,
   To Damascus’ gates drew nigh.

* * * * *

   And his eyes, too, and his mien
   Were, as are the eagles, keen;
   All the man was aquiline—­

are two strong, simple verses, and indeed the spirit of the whole poem is dignified and stately.  The rest of the volume, however, is disappointing.  Ordinary theology has long since converted its gold into lead, and words and phrases that once touched the heart of the world have become wearisome and meaningless through repetition.  If Theology desires to move us, she must re-write her formulas.

There is something very pleasant in coming across a poet who can apostrophise Byron as

      transcendent star
   That gems the firmament of poesy,

and can speak of Longfellow as a ‘mighty Titan.’  Reckless panegyrics of this kind show a kindly nature and a good heart, and Mr. Mackenzie’s Highland Daydreams could not possibly offend any one.  It must be admitted that they are rather old-fashioned, but this is usually the case with natural spontaneous verse.  It takes a great artist to be thoroughly modern.  Nature is always a little behind the age.

The Story of the Cross, an attempt to versify the Gospel narratives, is a strange survival of the Tate and Brady school of poetry.  Mr. Nash, who styles himself ‘a humble soldier in the army of Faith,’ expresses a hope that his book may ’invigorate devotional feeling, especially among the young, to whom verse is perhaps more attractive than to their elders,’ but we should be sorry to think that people of any age could admire such a paraphrase as the following: 

   Foxes have holes, in which to slink for rest,
   The birds of air find shelter in the nest;
   But He, the Son of Man and Lord of all,
   Has no abiding place His own to call.

It is a curious fact that the worst work is always done with the best intentions, and that people are never so trivial as when they take themselves very seriously.

(1) David Westren.  By Alfred Hayes, M.A.  New Coll., Oxon. (Birmingham:  Cornish Brothers.)