POETRY. — Lyrical Recreations. By Samuel Ward. (J. C. Hotten.)— Mr.

Ward's modest title names rather than describes a volume of more than common excellence. It is needless to say, though the public is leas forcibly impressed with its truth than are the critics, that the verses In which a gentleman finds his own recreation are seldom adapted for furnishing the same commodity to the world. Mr. Ward's verses make a pleasant exception to a rule that bolds good only too often. A grace- ful dedication of the first poem, "The King of the Troubadours," to Mr. Longfellow, indicates the character of those which are to follow with sufficient accuracy. Mr. Ward does not copy the American poet in any servile fashion, but he may be called, and probably would not disdain the appellation, a disciple of his school. He has studied the master's art to some purpose, and can produce with no small success work of good quality, which the teacher might not disdain to acknow- ledge. His versification is always good. Here and there he might have been, we are inclined to think, more successful if he had been less copious; but he seldom fails to be correct, and he is often graceful and tender. We quote a piece, the second of two respectively entitled "Lost" and "Found." The first deplores the death of a soldier-friend reported "dead on the field of honour ;" the second was written on the occasion of its being found that the friend was still alive. It seems to us a very felicitous use of a circumstance which it was not particularly easy to turn to poetical account

My tears fell on an empty grave.

Yet let them not be shed in vain, But dedicated to the brave Whom thousands mourn amongst the slain.

"My dirge, in feeble numbers wrought With pious heart, shall consecrate Their memory whose death has brought Such grief as thy imagined fate.

"Could tears awake them to life again, Their forms heroic would arise, Like trampled grass from quickening rain, Beneath a Nation's weeping eyes.

"Could plaint or song their ears but thrill As thine-awoke to hear my strain, No pen were dry—no voice were still, From where they lie to distant Maine.

"Yet deem not that my heart retracts The praise ne'er meant to dim the eye Of one whose future words and acts Shall verify that eulogy.

"I greet thee as some vessel fair Her owner hath deplored as lost, When on his gaze, through summer air, Her white sails glisten off the coast;

"And up the cliffs glad neighbours rush, As to a Ilre—and grasp his hand Whose moistened cheek the breezes Hush That waft his lost bark to the land."

This particular piece reminds us, indeed, of Mr. Tennyson, rather than of Professor Longfellow.—Under the Palms. By Thomas Steele. (Sampson Low and Co.)—A volume of verses some of which "were originally contributed to Fraser, Once-a- Week, and other magazines" has a certain title to existence. It is quite possible that the public may wish to see in a collected form the poems which it may be presumed to have received with favour when they appeared singly. We think, how- ever, such reputation as Mr. Steele may have acquired will scarcely be increased by the collected publication. The seventy or eighty pieces of which the volume is made up are singularly level in point of merit, bat the level is not high. They have not even, in spite of their title, the advantage of much local colour. Most of them might have been written anywhere, and though the word " palm " or " palm-tree " appears pretty frequently, it might often be changed to " oak " or "elm" without much damage to the sense. We have but little to allege against the book, which is indeed correct in versification and style, except the fact that we have not been able to find anything which seemed worth quoting.— Adeline ; a Poem in Seven Cantos, by J. Hector Couraelle (J. 0. Hotten), tells its story with much vigour and power of versification. It is the tale of a great king's love for the wife of one of his nobles, a tale which has been told before with a sinister view of the lady's character ; but which Mr. Courcelle tells again in a way which, he thinks, will do her true justice. The purity of the woman and the nobility that is latent in the heart of the monarch are able to crush the evil passion, and all ends well. Mr. Couraelle manages a difficult metre—he has chosen the Spenserian stanza—with skill. He is especially happy in description. We give a specimen of his manner :— "On costly linen, pure as mountain snow,

Here dishes shine, heap'd with all choicest fare, And vessels of fine gold and crystal throw A glittery light upon the fragrant air. The haughty bird of gorgeous train flames there,

Borne in to MIMIC by the gentle dame,

With retinue of sewers and damsels fair, And with all rites such royal dainties claim,

Is set before that guest of highest rank and fame.

'There those huge living islands of the brine Whose rage submerges ships, contributed

Rich savoury morsels, and there gleam'd rare wine

Of glorious vintage, amber-white and red, Proffeed by pages fair as Gauymed, In cups with beamy silver intertwined, And gemm'd with radiancies from Ganges bed, Wrought of those milky nuts of sombre rind That cluster their brown bloom on the faint Indian wind.

"There, too, the stately fowl of lily plume, The conscious monarch of his lake-domain- And enticed kings that crop the mountain broom, And flash anon like lightning o'er the plain— And watery denizens with crimson stain And feather'd shines and shadows of the air, Stung appetite, and soothing, stung again— • And fruitage, swart with foreign anus and rare, Mingled Hesperia° gold with native quince and pear."

—The Daughters of the King, and other Poems. By WalterSweetman, B.A. (Longmans.)—Mr. Sweetman somewhat puzzles us by his preface. This Is directed against the pretensions of the Ultramontanists and Infalli- bilista, and sets out the sufferings of the "Liberal Catholics, who, as he truly observes, "have been having a hard time of it with all

sides." One naturally expects the poems introduced in this way to have some bearing on the subject. It was certainly with this idea that we read through "The Daughters of the King," though the subject, a tale of the world before the Flood, seemed a scarcely appropriate vehicle. It has in truth no connection whatever with the matter. It is a story of some power, introduces certain ghastly effects, illustrative of the old- world wickedness, after the manner of Miss Jean Ingelow's "Stories of Doom," but certajnly inferior to that poem, with which it is of course natural to compare it. We are not certain that when Mr. Sweetman does touch the subject, as he does in "Richard Greville," he suc- ceeds very well. The best thing in the volume is "A. Legend of the Seine," telling how a compact with the Evil One was broken by the intervention of the Virgin.—Dreams of Victory and Defeat, and other Poems, by Ellis Ainsley (Partridge) is a volume of verse which is always correct and sometimes deserving of higher praise, as having some of tho force of the strong feeling which evidently inspired it. We quote some stanzas from "The Church at Spicheren, August, 1870 ":—

" Are these Thy trophies ?—These, 0 Christ! Thy weary children hold their fearful tryst, Their dying pangs are heard, their moanings low Pass through the air in Nature's struggling woe.

Are these Thy trophies ?

"Are these Thy trophies?—These, Thy worship paid? Is here from week to week where they are laid? Thy symbols hang around, while dying head Fixes its glance on the disfigured dead.

Are these Thy trophies?

"Why have they brought them here, 0 Christ ! to lie? Why have they brought them here to bleed and die ? Thy slaughtered children ; while, in useless flood— Poured out like water—Earth has drunk their blood.

"Are these the trophies of Thy Cross and thorn? Thy daily life—of kind forbearance borne? Thy Passion paints the wall,—we sorely thought Life, joy, and peace, for us that anguish bought.

"Thine is the only arm that can reverse, By magic touch, our own inflicted curse; 'Tis well that when all joy, all life hath fled, They come to Thee—Thou bringest back the dead.

"0 power how strange ! It crosseth back once more (So it bath crossed a myriad times before); Sweet ruth, kind patience, life in Buffering death: These are the dews of Thy own gentle breath.

"This is Thy conquest—working back again Across our passion's throng—our mortal pain; We reap our own despair. Thy touch alone, 0 Christ! can heal what our rash hands have done.

"These be Thy trophies then, 0 Christ divine !

The Cross, the Crown of Peace, Thy conquering sign. Athwart our battle-fields Thy symbols lie; But Thine shall rest the victory, Lord Most High!"

—Moments of Pleasure. By Samuel H. Bookies. (F. C. Harrison.)— The friends at whose request this volume "has been published partly" have not acted wisely. This is Mr. Bookies' style :— " Oblivion is not the tomb of those we love ; Those dear to mem'ry ever live and move. What most embitters life that most endears, Her sweetest thoughts are washed away by tears, But life's bright sunshine never reappears."

It is quite possible that the composition of this and the like gave to the author some "moments of pleasure," but the hope that its perusal may do the same for some readers is far too sanguine, and the friends who 'encouraged it have been more flattering than kind.—Unseen and Idealities ; Poems, by J. S. Maccrom. (Smith and Elder.)—These are two tedious pieces of verse, in which we can honestly praise the moral only. —We are not quite slue whether we can praise even the moral of So Far, by Herbert Randolph (J. C. Hotten).—Some of the verse sounds rather "fleshly ; " what it means is more than we can conjecture. Per- haps some of our readers may be more fortunate or more ingenious. Let them try on this specimen from the "Prologue "

"I could not sing for tripping on my art, And dreaming knew not all of this a dream, Till the free morning glorious took my part And broke all blithe and bitter things that seem, And she =clogged the lips to sing and smart That stifled dumb beneath sleep's hot soft seal.

"For dear the dream, but dull my tongue to deal Thereof the gold upon the grey faint air; Yet bath the morn so holpen that did heal And bale from drowning and strip slumber-bare? Lo 1 thick with thundrous sea the tresses reel, Dim, sumptuous, gold rivers through the green ;

"Yet who when deeps abound bath fairly seen Sheer from the rock the splendid sea-hair rave ? 'Who not, when fail the deep loud throats between And from the white is folded the last wave, Beholds, with slimeful light of snakes for sheen, Loose from the stone the clotted sea-weed droop?"

Mr. Randolph says that "violent writing is almost unavoidable by a youth who, after a course of mos t frigid education, first tasted of liberty of thought and education in Southern Italy." However this may be,publishing is quite an avoidable thing, whether one has lived in Southern Italy or no.— The Bride, and other Poems. By the Author of "Angel Visits." (Smith and Elder.)—" The Bride" is an allegory of the story of Redemption, well-intentioned, we are sure, but so monstrous in point of taste that we must make our condemnation of it most emphatic. It is divided into three parts, called "Wooed," "Won," and "Married." It is, in fact, the most solemn of subjects converted into a love-story. We shall give one specimen only, and that may seem more than enough. The Prince, it should be said, undertakes to win book the allegiance of a revolted race to his father by marrying a wife from among them:—

" And on the eve of the momentous fight,

His love assumed a fuller, tenderer tone ; He bade her come and sup with him that night,

To talk with her alone.

"And while he fed her,—' Think sometimes,' he said, 'How, like this bread, my flesh was rent for thee How, like this poured-out wine, my blood was shed :— In these remember me.

"Whither I go, thou canst not follow now, But shalt hereafter and my Father see. Let not thy heart be troubled, wondering how: Believe In him and me."

The author is not more felicitous, though he is loss offensive, in dealing with secular subjects. Here is a specimen from "Part II., 1865," of "The Laying of the Cable ":—

"Yet the time was not all lost, for no pains were spared, nor cost, All inquiry to exhaust that helped the scheme. And the Company at last, when six years were nearly past, Sought their purpose to redeem.

"Oh ! the tests that were applied, and the trials that were tried!

Ere the new-made Cable was prepared for sea ; Built bravely stood them all, and responded to each call, And seemed all it ought to be.

"So 'twas safe encased at length, in a sheath of wondrous strength: And the whole was then of such a bulk and weight, That Imo clear could ne'er be stowed on two common ships, this load ;

They would founder with the freight,'

—Poems and Sonnets, by the late James Ford, M.D. (W. Oliphant). are sufficiently correct and elegant verses, which may serve as a graceful memorial of an accomplished man. We should have been better pleased with the volume had it been without the preface in which Mr. George Gilfillan disposes with summary criticism of the literature of the eighteenth and nineteenth eenturies.--A Blighted Life, and other Poems. By Joseph Dafty. (Simpkin and Marshall.)—We shall not, we trust, be classed by the author among "the malevolent," if we confess that we have looked in vain for what he calls "the true spirit of poesy" in this volume. It is respectable verse, such as a man may be excused, rather than justified, for publishing once in his life.— R.heingold. By J. B. Foshroke. (Provost and Co.)—This is, it seems, the second of a series of " metrical legends." We like poetry, but we do not, as a rule, like metrical composition. Not that metre may not be used for other things than poetry. It may be made to increase the power of humour and to sharpen the point of wit. But metrical legends, romances, tales, and the like, are for the most part sadly tedious. Even such a master-hand as Sir Walter Scott's did not always succeed. Rheingold is certainly not a success. And if Mr. Fosbroko mast be "metrical," why this metre ? The Spenserian stanza must be beyond his powers, when the necessity of a triple rhyme drives him to write "for should to Rome such carnal deeds elope," when he moans, "Come to the knowledge of."—Sir Ralph de Rayne and Lilian Grey, a Ltgend of the Abbey Church of St. Alban, by Francis Bennoch (Strahan), is another story in verse, which has, anyhow, the merits of brevity and quick movement. It is told prettily enough in fluent octosyllabie verse.—The author of "Vasco, who now sends out The Violet Child of Arcadia, and other Poems (Long- mans), is an industrious versifier, whose merits we are not able to estimate very highly. The principal subjects of the volume before us are classical, suggested to the author, he says, by Mr. 3ox's "Mythology of the Aryan Nations." There is but little, however, of the " metereo- logical " in his treatment of them. He deals with them in the ordinary way, not with much power, and without a genuinely classical feeling. Why, for instance, should he talk of " fays " and " sprites " when he is describing Persephone wandering in the fields of Enna ? We do not know that he is happier elsewhere. Here is a stanza from "A January Frost "Sun a mere globe, in salmon-dyed robe, Set in a fleece of grey;

Gazing below on the frost and the snow, And longing to kiss them away."

It is surprising that a writer who must have studied in some way good models should send out anything so false in taste and so incongruous. —We cannot thank the author of The Round of Service : a Metrical Liturgy (Longman), who tells us in a prefatory note that this volume "is at once the fruit and the memorial of a temporary partial com- munion with the Established Church of England." We may hope that he gained some edification from the services in which he joined, but who can profit by reading the beginning of the Litany travestied in this fashion ?—

"0 God, whose home lain the sky, Look down upon our misery! 0 Christ, who didat for sinners die, Look down upon our misery!

0 Holy Spirit from on high

Who bringest every blessing nigh! By Thine eternal Unity,

Thine infinite Diversity, Look down upon our misery."

—Schiller's Wallenstein's Camp is literally translated into English verse, the translation and the text being on opposite pages, by Lieutenant- Colonel T. Wirgman. (Nutt.)—Autumn Leaves, by S. Collinson (Sampson, Low, and Co.), have reached a second edition ; and Upwards and Onwards, by S. W. Partridge (Partridge), the "eighth thousand." —Hymns of Duty and Faith, selected and arranged by R. Crompton Jones. (Whitfield.)—" The hymns which have been selected," writes the editor in his preface, "are such as express the personal religion of the heart." We cannot find fault with the spirit, a genuinely catholic one, in which the work has been done ; but the result, possibly unavoidable, is a volume of devotional poetry rather than of hymns. Possibly this is what the editor intends, for he says that his collection is " intended solely for private use." Bat a hymn, we take it, is meant to be sang ; in that sense this is not a book of hymns.