POETRY.—Sprefte Carntina Mum. By Pakenham Beatty. (Bell and Sons.)—Some of

Mr. Beatty's poems have appeared in the Spectator, others, we believe, in other journals or periodicals. They vary in merit, the amount of finish being very perceptibly different ; but they have a certain strength and freshness. Mr. Beatty does not weary us with hackneyed and commonplace verse. Sometimes he startles us ; the Commune of 1871 finds in him its vates sacer ; and one of his memorial poems to the dead, is dedicated to the memory of Baudin, a Deputy who was killed on a barricade during the Coup d'Etat of 1851. " At Love's Grave " is a travesty of very sacred words, and will not add to the esteem in which reverent-minded people will hold the volume. Here is a graceful dedication to R. H. Horne :- ' Master, beloved for memory Of all high hearts that hold thee dear, I bring my gifts for thee to see, I sing my songs for thee to hear, And at thy Muse's slit inn lay down The buds I gathered for her crown.

Dear Master, take what gifts are ours, And lot thy brows scorn not to wear

The garland of what fading flowers Our mortal summer finds most fair, Till our sun miss thee, and than bo

Where Marlowe's spirit waits for thee."

—Fleet Street Eclogues. By John Davidson. (Mathews and Lane.)—Mr. Davidson is making himself a place among the minor poets of the day. This volume will not fail to help him forward, though we must say that to our taste he is more successful, as he is certainly more agreeable, when he gets away from Fleet Street than when he is in it. This, however, is doubtless part of the purpose of his song. (" Fleet Street," it must be understood, is regarded as the land of pressmen.)

" Ambition, and passion, and power Come out of the north and the west, Every year, every day, every hour, Into Fleet Street to fashion their best They would shape what is noble and wise; They must live by a traffic in lies."

So says one of Mr. Davidson's swains, with other things of the same kind. We should give the prize to the Corydon who sings in the following fashion :- " The osier-peelers—ragged bands—

In osier.holts their business ply; Like strokes of silver willow-wands On river banks a-bleaching lie.

The patchwork sunshine nets the lea ; The flitting shadows halt and pass; Forlorn, the mossy bumblebee Lounges along the flow•erless grass.

With unseen smoke as pure as dew, Sweotor,than love or lovers are, Wood-violets of watohet hue Their secret hearths betray afar."

—Silhouettes. By Arthur Symons. (Same publishers.)—Mr. Symons goes further afield than Fleet Street,—to Paris, for in- stance, and Berlin, and London ; but wherever he goes there is something Bohemian about scenery and people. It is a quite refreshing change to come, once in a way, across— "Cool comely country Pattie, grown A daisy where the daisies grew."

For the most part, the ladies of whom he sings are such as the one of whom he says :—

" The day (Whereof your dreams are) does but steep The omnibus upon its way)" " The charm of rouge on fragile cheeks."

Here, too, we are not displeased to leave town for country. As, indeed, the author himself seems to be, at least, for a while :—

" Peace in the valley, peace that fills The hollows of the resting bills ; Peace in the mill-stream's roar that goes And comes, a voice of loud repose ; Peace iu the silence of the trees. And, breathing faint along the leas, Peace, the sure peace that Ne tare yields To the long patience of the fields That lie and wait the happy birth— Sole rest, the rest of thelarown earth,

Hero, from the turmoil of the street, I seek repose, I find retreat; Making, from that absorbing tide, A momentary step aside. Last night I saw the fiery shine Of lights on that grim nether-line

or have-

In London ; now, this eve, I see The frozen river clasp the lea With its white clinging arms that keep The promise of eternal sloop."

—From the same publishers we have a third volume,—Under the Hawthorn, and other Verses, by Augusta de Gruchy. There is feeling and thought in them, but something of the "accom- plishment of verse is wanting." The " Old Garden," for instance, though it reminds us of " In Memoriam," has distinct merit, but the last stanza, on which the reader should dwell without any weakness to mar his enjoyment, is distinctly feeble. The singer has been asking whether the flowers bloom, the birds sing, and the moon shines, as well as of old. And the answer is thus given :— " They bloom, sing, shine ; our absence hindering not : They are but waiting till ourselves have ranged

Enough, so we, revisiting that spot, May find them all unchanged."

That certainly admits of no little improvement. " In a Light- house " strikes us as being the best of the poems. It is the story of a wife from the country who pines to death amidst the sur- roundings of her home by the sea.—Break of Day, and other Poems. By Rollo Russell. (T. Fisher Unwin.)—Mr. Russell, to judge from the contents of his volume, is a man of considerable reading, and he has reached an age, as we see in the Peerage, which should imply a maturity of judgment. But this volume is not what we should expect under the circumstances. Mr. Russell ought to know that the verse is not good enough for pub- lication. Here are a few lines from an ode, " Ad Sciontiam"

" Horrid errors flee before thee, Adorations steeped in sin

Pions dreams in pomp dissolving, Show of faith and void within."

How can an " adoration" be " steeped in sin," or a "dream " be " dissolved in pomp " ?