and this: 

      The third, while yet a youth,
   Espoused a lady noble but not royal,
   One only son who gave him—­Pharamond—­

lines that, apparently, rest their claim to be regarded as poetry on their unnecessary and awkward inversions.  Yet this poem is not without beauty, and the character of Nardi, the little prince who is treated as the Court fool, shows a delicate grace of fancy, and is both tender and true.  The most delightful thing in the whole volume is a little lyric called April, which is like a picture set to music.

The Chimneypiece of Bruges is a narrative poem in blank verse, and tells us of a young artist who, having been unjustly convicted of his wife’s murder, spends his life in carving on the great chimneypiece of the prison the whole story of his love and suffering.  The poem is full of colour, but the blank verse is somewhat heavy in movement.  There are some pretty things in the book, and a poet without hysterics is rare.

Dr. Dawson Burns’s Oliver Cromwell is a pleasant panegyric on the Protector, and reads like a prize poem by a nice sixth-form boy.  The verses on The Good Old Times should be sent as a leaflet to all Tories of Mr. Chaplin’s school, and the lines on Bunker’s Hill, beginning,

   I stand on Bunker’s towering pile,

are sure to be popular in America.

K. E. V.’s little volume is a series of poems on the Saints.  Each poem is preceded by a brief biography of the Saint it celebrates—­which is a very necessary precaution, as few of them ever existed.  It does not display much poetic power, and such lines as these on St. Stephen,—­

   Did ever man before so fall asleep? 
   A cruel shower of stones his only bed,
   For lullaby the curses loud and deep,
      His covering with blood red—­

may be said to add another horror to martyrdom.  Still it is a thoroughly well-intentioned book and eminently suitable for invalids.

Mr. Foskett’s poems are very serious and deliberate.  One of the best of them, Harold Glynde, is a Cantata for Total Abstainers, and has already been set to music.  A Hindoo Tragedy is the story of an enthusiastic Brahmin reformer who tries to break down the prohibition against widows marrying, and there are other interesting tales.  Mr. Foskett has apparently forgotten to insert the rhymes in his sonnet to Wordsworth; but, as he tells us elsewhere that ‘Poesy is uninspired by Art,’ perhaps he is only heralding a new and formless form.  He is always sincere in his feelings, and his apostrophe to Canon Farrar is equalled only by his apostrophe to Shakespeare.

The Pilgrimage of Memory suffers a good deal by being printed as poetry, and Mr. Barker should republish it at once as a prose work.  Take, for instance, this description of a lady on a runaway horse:—­