" The catalogue of common things Is no more common,

no more dull,"

and that-

"Poetic imag'ry is worn To shreds and patches,"

and pleads for a "fusing voice" (what is a "fusing voice" ?) that shall-

" Chant in plain strains the strife and stress."

Why, then, do we find him begin with such a poem as " Endymion's

" QIIESTION AND ANSWER.

You rhyme in praise of my golden hair; eh, but the gold will turn to grey. You vow that no maiden with me may compare; Yes, but the Spring-time will pass away.

Though my eyes be blue as the deep-blue sea, Blue eyes can fade through the mist of years, What if the end of your rhyme should be Blistered and spoilt with salt, sad tears ?

Then I must find rhymes for snow-white hair, Dear, if the gold should turn to grey, For never another with you may compare, E'en though the Spring-time be pased away.

If your eyes, now blue as the deep-blue sea. Should fade, beloved, through the mist of years, What care I, so together we be ? Only, sweetheart, let me dry those tears."

—A Spray of Lilac, and other Poems and Songs. By Marie Hedderwick Browne. (Isbister and Co.)—There is nothing new in these verses, but the old familiar themes are touched with a certain tenderness and grace. Now and then we find a certain carelessness of expression, " regalest," for instance, on p. 57, a quite impossible word ; but the volume, as a whole, shows no inconsiderable command of melody and expression. "By the Sea" is as good a specimen as we can find :—

" By TEE SEA.

I think, as the white sails come and go. Of the welcomes loud, and the farewells low ; Of the meeting lips, and the parting tears, Of the new-born hopes, and the growing fears, Of the eyes that glow, and the cheeks that pale. As the hazy horizon's mystic veil Is silently parted, and to and fro The white sails come and the white sails go: And a grey mist gathers, and all rows dim As I watch alone by the ocean's rim.

For a dream is mine—ah me! ah me I

That salt with tears is the salt salt sea.

0, yearning eyes and outstretched hands ! 0, divided lives, and divided lands!

As long as the waters ebb and flow Shall the white sails come and the white, sails go."

—The Dread Voyage : Poems. By William Wilfred Campbell. (W. Briggs, Toronto.)—Mr. Campbell should eschew "Lancelot," and Bach-like old-world subjects ; nor is it wise to suggest a comparison with the "Ancient Mariner," as he does in "The Last Ride ; " and if he has not a reliable ear of his own, he should get a friend who would not pass such a line as, "He wandered in a grotesque shape." For he has something to say, at least about Nature as she is seen under Canadian skies. In such poems as "Winter," "An August Reverie," and "On a June Night," he shows himself at his best.—Another volume of Canadian origin is Songs of the Common Day, by Charles G. D. Roberts (Longmans).—Here the local colour is much stronger and more artistically given. The series of "Sonnets," for instance, presents carefully worked pictures, the difficulty of the form having moved the writer, as is often the ease, to successful effort. "The Fir Woods" is a good specimen of his manner :— "THE Fla WOODS.

The wash of endless waves is in their tops, Endlessly swaying, and the long winds stream Athwart them from tho far-off shores of dream. Through the stirred branches Altering, faintly drops Mystic dream-dust of isle, and palm, and cave, Coral and sapphire, realms of rose, that seem More radiant than ever earthly gleam Revealed of fairy mead or haunted wave.

A cloud of gold, a cleft of blue profound,— These are my gates of wonder, surged about By tumult of tossed bough and rocking crest: The vision lures. The spirit spurns her bound, Spreads her unprisoned wing, and drifts from out This green and humming gloom that wraps my rest."

In quite another style is "A Christmas-Eve Courtin'," but this, too, has a genuine flavour of the soil, as has also "The Wood Appeal," which is little more than a feeble echo of Keats ? " Keats " and "Chatterton's Despair" have nothing of the "New Spirit" in them ; nor is much of it to be discerned in the poems that follow, till we reach the "Democratic Chant." There is some really good stuff in this poem ; in this, for instance, which is not unlike Walt Whitman, in a saner moment, condescending to something like poetical form :—

" I sing not of heroes, for all flesh is goodly, alike in the main ; I claim no advantage of birth or possession, I share what I gain •, I stand with my fellows, I need them: together we thrive or we fall,

The sin and the sorrow of one is the sorrow and sin of us all ; Society holds us and folds us in fetters far firmer than brass,

'Ti, as drops of the ocean, as leaves of the oak tree, as green blades of grass ;

'Tis the pageant of millions that moves us to marvel, the measureless sweep

Of the fields of the harvest, the gloom of the forest, the roar of the deep.

And my spirit in rapture flings forth a proud preen, caresses the whole ;

We lend to each other our best and our bravest—I give you my flout— Nay, 'tie not my soul, 'tie the soul of a nation that beats in this Son; For myself, I am nothing, I rank with the file, I am one with the throng."

—Poems. By Florence Peacock. (W. Andrews, Hull.)—There is some thought and originality here, a certain freshness in the choice and treatment of subjects, and an occasional force of expression. But the form is disappointing, nor is the matter so good, to speak plainly, as to excuse defect of form. "The Charm of the Rue," "Lost Atlantis," and" Holger the Dane " are among the most successful of Miss Peacock's efforts. Here is a specimen of her work, somewhat spoilt, we cannot but think, by the feeble ending :—

Frolic." " Ave : an Ode for the Centenary of Shelley's Birth," is a creditable effort of the academic kind. It seems, indeed, that Canada is going to be a land of poets.