But dost thou love me, O thou pure of heart,
   Whose very looks are prayers?  What couldst thou see
   In this forsaken pool by the yew-wood’s side,
   To sit down at its bank, and dip thy hand,
   Saying, ’It is so clear!’—­and lo! ere long,
   Its blackness caught the shimmer of thy wings,
   Its slimes slid downward from thy stainless palm,
   Its depths grew still, that there thy form might rise.

   THE NOVICE

   It is near morning.  Ere the next night fall
      I shall be made the bride of heaven.  Then home
      To my still marriage-chamber I shall come,
   And spouseless, childless, watch the slow years crawl.

   These lips will never meet a softer touch
      Than the stone crucifix I kiss; no child
      Will clasp this neck.  Ah, virgin-mother mild,
   Thy painted bliss will mock me overmuch.

   This is the last time I shall twist the hair
      My mother’s hand wreathed, till in dust she lay: 
      The name, her name given on my baptism day,
   This is the last time I shall ever bear.

   O weary world, O heavy life, farewell! 
      Like a tired child that creeps into the dark
      To sob itself asleep, where none will mark,—­
   So creep I to my silent convent cell.

   Friends, lovers whom I loved not, kindly hearts
      Who grieve that I should enter this still door,
      Grieve not.  Closing behind me evermore,
   Me from all anguish, as all joy, it parts.

The volume chronicles the moods of a sweet and thoughtful nature, and though many things in it may seem somewhat old-fashioned, it is still very pleasant to read, and has a faint perfume of withered rose-leaves about it.

(1) A Book of Verses.  By William Ernest Henley. (David Nutt.)

(2) Romantic Ballads and Poems of Phantasy.  By William Sharp. (Walter Scott.)

(3) Poems, Ballads, and a Garden Play.  By A. Mary F. Robinson. (Fisher Unwin.)

(4) Poems.  By the Author of John Halifax, Gentleman. (Macmillan and Co.)

SIR EDWIN ARNOLD’S LAST VOLUME

(Pall Mall Gazette, December 11, 1888.)

Writers of poetical prose are rarely good poets.  They may crowd their page with gorgeous epithet and resplendent phrase, may pile Pelions of adjectives upon Ossas of descriptions, may abandon themselves to highly coloured diction and rich luxuriance of imagery, but if their verse lacks the true rhythmical life of verse, if their method is devoid of the self-restraint of the real artist, all their efforts are of very little avail.  ‘Asiatic’ prose is possibly useful for journalistic purposes, but ‘Asiatic’ poetry is not to be encouraged.  Indeed, poetry may be said to need far more self-restraint than prose.  Its conditions are more exquisite.  It produces its effects by more subtle means.  It must not