PONTRY. — Purpose and Passion : being Pygmalion, and other Poems. By

Kenningale Robert Cook, B.A. (Virtue.)—We gather from certain indications in this volume that Mr. Cook is a young man ; and we doubt whether circumstances, in leading him or enabling him to print this sumptuous volume, have dealt altogether kindly with him. Fluency to one who has the poetical gift which Mr. Cook certainly has is a perilous, if not a fatal, gift; and one of the wholesomest checks possible is the difficulty of publishing. Many a man, poet or otherwise, must shudder to think, as one shudders at the recollection of some great danger just escaped, of the crudities which, if a kindly severe fate had not forbidden, he would have forced upon the world. Here are some of Mr. Cook's

lines:— "Thus she came And shone upon my loneliness a queen, A queen of joy. And as she swept along, Slender and stately as a maiden queen, Amid the weeping blossoms of her hair Floated long trail of lawn, like thin white clouds That curl about the sun. Her loveliness Was as a necklace radiant of all gems ; Her lips a ruby in the kiss of noon.

Her eyes the diamond lustre that did melt

Its flaming in the pearls of unshed tears Above her eyes the dark brows eommunbd, Curled in love-language ravishingly sweet, And, as with love, long lashes quiverbd," &c.

Now, we have seen worse lines than these in print before—many a one and much worse—and Mr. Cook can certainly write better ; but the in- capacity of seeing that such poor, tinselly stuff is not poetry, and has no more right to be published than the ordinary talk over a dinner-table has a right to be published as prose, is a bad feature. And here is a stanza :— "A dream of hot eyes running over From fountains of virginal pain, When the heart's quick is bruised, and the lover Fears all his enchantments are vain, And that life is but stabbing for gold in arenas of brain."

There is a meaning here, but how strangely expressed! It is difficult to imagine how a man who has studied poetical models could let such an expression as "arenas of brain" pass into print. We have been severe, not because Mr. Cook is a mere poetaster, but because he seems to be wasting real power in a careless, undisciplined fluency of verse- writing.—Mr. J. G. Whyte-Melville who gives us Songs and Verses (Chapman and Hall), is a practised writer, who never lets his pen write anything that is altogether feeble and valuable. Of his novels we have always had what the author probably thinks the bad taste to prefer the sporting stories ; of his verses we, in the same way, prefer the hunting songs. The sentimental poems are fluent and easy, little above the average of verse which a cultivated English gentleman ought to have taste enough to write, and taste enough not to publish ; but there is an uncommon excellence is such stanzas as these, from "The Clipper that stands in the stall at the top ":—

"A head like a snake, and a skin like a mouse, An eye like a woman, bright, gentle, and brown, With loins and a back that would carry a house,

And quarters to lift him smack over a town; What's a leap to the rest, is to him but a hop, This Clipper that stands in the stall at the top.

"When the country is deepest, I give you my word, 'Tis a pride and a pleasure to put him along ; O'er fallow and pasture he sweeps like a bird, And there's nothing too wide, nor too high, nor too strong; For the ploughs cannot choke, nor the fences can crop, This Clipper that stands in the stall at the top.

"Last Monday we ran for an hour in the vale.

Not a bullfinch was trimmed, of a gap not a sign:

All the ditches were double, each fence had a rail, And the farmers had locked every gate in the line, So I gave him the office, and over them—Pop ! Went the Clipper that stands in the stall at the top.

"I'd a lead of them all when we came to the brook, A big one—a bumper—and up to your chin;

As he threw it behind him I turned for a look,

There was eight of us had it, and seven got In!

Then he shook his lean head, when he heard them go plop;

This Clipper that stands in the stall at the top."

Raymond Sully's Great Elixir (Pickering) is a "dramatic poem," that is to say, it is a series of scenes from the great alchemist's life put into dialogue. The author might have told the story well enough in prose, seeming indeed to have some power of describing, but either does not know what verse is, or has such elaborate notions about dramatic verse that ordinary persons cannot read what he writes.—Lesko, Prince of Poland (Chapman and Hall) seems to us sheer raving. Here is a part of act ill., scone i.:— "(Re-enter several Peasants as before.) "1ST PEASANT."

"Fire away; down with 'em ; burn 'em; they cheat us of our rights.—(Haring and setting wood on fire.)

"Liffiff0."

"In the pay of hell is this deed done.

"1ST PEASANT."

"Even so, groat Prince ; ant be thy pleasure to say't, wise Prince.

"Wretch! I am not bound to tenderness.—(Kifft him.)

So dies a monster reeking stench from bribes. Let him I have offended seem a man And dare me openly. Then all confess the bestial hearts.

"2ND PEASANT."

"Please, my lord, a' am an honest man.—(Others recoil.)

"Lss60."

"Stay; I will not kill yo ; let me not call Ye cowards, that infamy so horrible May fester the habitation of once love. Perjuring the dust of heroes. Mockery Of fair hopes to catch this vile redound: To lay upon good-will the rage of fiends And murderous horror! Wherefore slaves of drains?"

After this, we can only feebly remark that 'ye' is not the accusative of 'you.'