Dr. Goodchild does not possess Mr. Armstrong’s literary touch, but his Somnia Medici is distinguished by a remarkable quality of forcible and direct expression.  The poem that opens his volume, Myrrha, or A Dialogue on Creeds, is quite as readable as a metrical dialogue on creeds could possibly be; and The Organ Builder is a most romantic story charmingly told.  Dr. Goodchild seems to be an ardent disciple of Mr. Browning, and though he may not be able to reproduce the virtues of his master, at least he can echo his defects very cleverly.  Such a verse as—­

   ’Tis the subtle essayal
      Of the Jews and Judas,
   Such lying lisp
   Might hail a will-o’-the-wisp,
      A thin somebody—­Theudas—­

is an excellent example of low comedy in poetry.  One of the best poems in the book is The Ballad of Three Kingdoms.  Indeed, if the form were equal to the conception, it would be a delightful work of art; but Dr. Goodchild, though he may be a master of metres, is not a master of music yet.  His verse is often harsh and rugged.  On the whole, however, his volume is clever and interesting.

Mr. Keene has not, we believe, a great reputation in England as yet, but in India he seems to be well known.  From a collection of criticisms appended to his volume it appears that the Overland Mail has christened him the Laureate of Hindostan and that the Allahabad Pioneer once compared him to Keats.  He is a pleasant rhymer, as rhymers go, and, though we strongly object to his putting the Song of Solomon into bad blank verse, still we are quite ready to admire his translations of the Pervigilium Veneris and of Omar Khayyam.  We wish he would not write sonnets with fifteen lines.  A fifteen-line sonnet is as bad a monstrosity as a sonnet in dialogue.  The volume has the merit of being very small, and contains many stanzas quite suitable for valentines.

Finally we come to Procris and Other Poems, by Mr. W. G. Hole.  Mr. Hole is apparently a very young writer.  His work, at least, is full of crudities, his syntax is defective, and his grammar is questionable.  And yet, when all is said, in the one poem of Procris it is easy to recognise the true poetic ring.  Elsewhere the volume is amateurish and weak.  The Spanish Main was suggested by a leader in the Daily Telegraph, and bears all the traces of its lurid origin.  Sir Jocellyn’s Trust is a sort of pseudo-Tennysonian idyll in which the damozel says to her gallant rescuer, ‘Come, come, Sir Knight, I catch my death of cold,’ and recompenses him with

      What noble minds
   Regard the first reward,—­an orphan’s thanks.

Nunc Dimittis is dull and The Wandering Jew dreadful; but Procris is a beautiful poem.  The richness and variety of its metaphors, the music of its lines, the fine opulence of its imagery, all seem to point to a new poet.  Faults, it is true, there are in abundance; but they are faults that come from want of trouble, not from want of taste.  Mr. Hole shows often a rare and exquisite sense of beauty and a marvellous power of poetic vision, and if he will cultivate the technique of his craft a little more we have no doubt but that he will some day give us work worthy to endure.  It is true that there is more promise than perfection in his verse at present, yet it is a promise that seems likely to be fulfilled.