Poirray. — Poems. By Augustus Taylor. (Henry S. King and Co.) — The "minor
poets" scarcely obtain that proportionate share in these columns which their numbers, if not their deserts, might claim. In truth, they
are very difficult to criticise, except, indeed, they be very good, which, being "minor," they can scarcely be,—or very bad, when, perhaps, they are better left alone. Hence our notices of this genus of "current literature" are rare. But they would be much more frequent, did we often light upon such volumes of verse as that which Mr. Taylor here gives us. A man of culture, manifestly a student of classical models, with a genuine feeling for tenderness and pathos, and possessing a quite competent mastery of the art of versification, and a sense of melody that is seldom at fault, he writes what in days when the paths of glory were less crowded might well have won for him a niche in the Temple of Fame. If this is an early work—and we see no notice of previous achievements on his title-page—he may yet do great things. Among the poems which we would note with special praise are "Touch Me not."..from which we take three stanzas :—
"All eye, all ear, with heart on fire, She turned to clasp the Lost and Found, But stronger than her warm desire
Beamed from that eye a calm profound,—
Calm, deeper than the calm of death, Of Life, beyond the touch of sense, Of Love, a new creation's breath, The secret of Omnipotence.
Henceforth to her and all His own All things, even He—the Christ—were new, And by the quickening Spirit sown, The Risen Life within them grew."
We may also note " Hilarion," "Upwards," and the Sonnets generally, especially two addressed to Pliny, which show a genuine knowledge of one of the most interesting and pleasing characters of antiquity. But one of the prettiest of all is "Margaret :"-
"Into the garden I walked ; ne'er had I seen her before, Under a budding white rose she stood in the shade of the door. Quiet and pale was her face, but maidenly bright were her eyes, Fair as the newly-born moon when low in the easterly skies. There as I stood by her side my spirit grew happy and free ; Would I had said what I thought, that none would I marry but thee! The far-off bells were tolling, for 'twas some one's funeral-day, And in the meadows close by the mowers were mowing the bay.
Into the garden I walked ; but once had I seen her before: Vacant and still was the house, wide open was standing the door, Then silent and listening-I went up to the curtainless bed. Where she lay shi ouded in white, all winterly, lonely, and dead; There was a look on her face, as if she'd been thinking of me. `Dear Margaret,' then whispered I, 'none will I marry but thee!' And the far-off bells were ringing. for 'twas some one's wedding-day, And in the meadows close by the mowers were mowing the hay.
Silent and dark was you lake, as under the desolate hill, Lit by no gleam from the sky, it slumbered there, dreary and still, Till, with its swallow-like wing, the wind in its wandering Hight Touched into music the reeds, and broke it in ripples of light. Silent and dark was my heart, till suddenly thrilled by the tone Tender and pure of go voice which told me I was not alone. Yet how I keg to be lead, wheneer, on a calm summer day, The far-off bells are ringing, and the mowers are mowing the hay!"
--Penelope's Waiting. By Meta Orred. (Smith and Elder.)—The author of these poems has manifestly a certain gift of melody. A page of her blank verse, always the most critical and conclusive of tests, is sufficient to convince any reader of so much. And she has a power of expression. Her diction is rich, even to the point where it becomes 'wearisome. Unfortunately, her subjects, anyhow, the earlier subjects, which naturally first engage a reader's attention, are not well chosen. Studies on such classical themes as "Penelope's Waiting," "Pygmalion," ." Orpheus," and the like, demand a much severer style and more sober treatment than they get here. How unlike any classical models are such lines as these, which are yet no bad specimen of the newest romantic school!— " She waited till the moon was wandering On silvern heights, right perilously high; Till winds were husht, like weary, sobbing babes, And breathed in murmurs thro' the myrtle groves, And pressed out roses with such rounded care, Their deep, full hearts were blushing to the core; Till wood-birds shook out little sleepy pipes Thro' the deep shadow of the ilex-trees, Like silver bars upon an ebon harp; Till dew fell trickling on the arrow-heads By reedy streams, and tiny unknown things Beat rapture thro' the lichen-jewelled stones."
But these studies are more vigorous than the rest of the contents of the volume. Neither the " Odes " nor the "Idylls," as the author somewhat capriciously calls them, are very good.
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