SOME BOOKS OF THE WEEK.

(Tinder this heading ire unties such Books of the week as have not been reserved for review in other forms.]

Kentucky Poems. By Madison Cawein. With an Introduction by Edmund Gosse. (Grant Richards. 58. net.)—Mr. Cawein has selected, or has had selected for him, fourscore poems out of eleven volumes of verse. As he is still some years short of forty, his Muse cannot be accused of inactivity. She is, indeed, too profuse. Mr. Gosse's criticism anticipates our own. " He has bad rhymes, amazing in so delicate an ear ; he has awkwardness of phrase not expected in one so plunged in contemplation of the eternal harmony of Nature." We had marked some examples before reading the Introduction ; these it is unnecessary to give. On the whole, Mr. Cawein's merits so far outweigh his faults that we are content to thank him for this volume ; it is a serious poetical effort. Mr. Cawein does not stand quite so much alone in the States as Mr. Gosse would have it—we remember, as we write, the names of Louise Chandler Moulton and John Tabb—but he should be a power in American literature. Perhaps we may add that in his imaginative paganism he is now and then a little too realistic. What do we want, besides, in Kentucky woods with Maenads, Oreads, Naiads, Bacchantes, and so forth? The author of what follows has certainly read Keats and Shelley to some purpose :- " Oh, for the deep enchantment of one draught I

The reckless ecstasy of classic earth (- With godlike eyes to laugh as gods have laughed In eyes of mortal brown, a mighty mirth. Of deity delirious with desire I To breathe the dropping roses of the shrines, The splashing wine-libation and the blood, And all the young priest's dreaming! To inspire My eager soul with beauty, 'til it shines An utt'rance of life's loftier brotherhood!

So would I slumber in the old-world shades, And Poesy should touch me, as some bokl Wild bee a pulpy lily of the glades,

Barbaric-covered with the kernelled gold ; And feel the glory of the Golden Age Less godly than my purpose, strong to dare Death with the pure immortal lips of love : Less lovely than my soul's ideal rage To mate itself with Music and declare Itself part meaning of the stare above."

Here is a simpler strain :—

CONTENT.

When I behold how some pursue Fame, that is Care's embodiment Or fortune, whose false face looks

true,—

An humble home with sweet content Is all I ask for me and you.

An humble home, where pigeons coo, Whose path leads under breezy lines Of frosty-berried cedars to A gate. one mass of trumpet-vines, Is all I ask for me and you.

A garden, which all summer through The roses old snake redolent. And morniug-glories, gay of hue, And tansy, with its homely scent, Is all I ask for me and you.

An orchard, that the pippins strew, From whose bruised gold the juices spring;

A vineyard, where the grapes bang blue, Wine-big and ripe for vintaging, Is all I ask for me and you.

A lane that leads to some far view Of forest or of fallow land, Bloomed o'er with rose and meadow- rue, Each with a bee in its hot hand, Is all I ask for me and you.

At morn, a pathway deep with dew, And birds to vary time and tune; At eve, a sunset avenue, And whippoorwills that haunt the moon,

Is all I ask for me and you.

Dear heart, with wants so small and few, And faith, that's better far than gold, A lowly friend, a child or two,

To care for us when we are old, Is all I ask for me and you."