I

I sunk repentant to the earth,
And prayed in lowly plight,
That God would still be near my soul,
And keep His Heav'n in sight.

"And I will seek thy grave," I said,
"Thou monitress divine,
And tame my proud, rebellious heart
To patience such as thine!"

'Twas evening, and the summer sun
Was fading in the west;

I stood among the low green graves,
Where lay the dead at rest.

I marked the sculptured tomb, where
death

Long since received the bride,

And all o'ergrown with turf and flowers
A lowly grave beside!

A marble Cross above it stood

To guard the sacred sod,

And there with wond'ring joy I read

The name of Ichabod!

I flung my arms about the Cross
With tears and kisses vain,
As if the cold hard stone could speak,
And answer me again!

"O thou, too much my crown of life!
Thou Idol of my heart,
Too late upon thy grave I learn,
How frail a thing thou art!
Too late deplore the cruel vow,

That marred thy hapless past,
To curses all earth's blessings turned,
And broke thy heart at last!.
Presumptuous Priest! such vows pro-
fane

The hallowed laws of God!
Bear witness many a blighted soul,
Like my poor Ichabod!"

It is well that we have among us hearts that dare utter the truth. Amid the purposeless, soulless, yet alluring fascinations of much of the poetry of modern growth, such books as this come as saviours, offering to guide the thought and pen of the worker away from the flatterer's pathway, out of the field of the cloth of gold, into the field of the world's million-heart harvest.

A. S. H. contributes a lengthy piece, called "An Emblem of Life." As a recital of events, and the emotions aroused by those events, it reads pleasantly and prettily; but the chief thing in a poem being the THOUGHT therein contained, both in quality and quantity, this has too little for the space occupied in relation. A lighted candle in a small room fills that room with light, but placed in a long hall, it only makes darkness visible; and a good thought compressed into a sonnet or a stanza gives appreciable light and pleasure, but if diluted in a hundred lines. both the light and the pleasure are diminished immensely. The following, on the moments succeeding a storm, is vigorous, truthful and poetic :

"The air
Again was pure and cool, but seemed

To be more laden than before,
With varied and with sweet perfume,
As though the storm had beaten out
A hidden odour from the flowers
More rich than erst they breathed."

Iota" sends two pieces; one called "The Astronomer's Address to the Sun," which is too familiar far to elicit anything but dignified silence from the sovereign addressed,—

"Prince of the universe! bright orb of day!
Pouring on earth thy self-productive light,
Save in the true alternate change of night,
Which in quick order melts at thy first ray,
Say what thou art: and if thou wilt just stay
And satisfy my search."

The other, called "Ever Parting," has much sweetness, but lacks the right words to express what it only dimly shadows forth. If "Iota" read Trench "On the Study of Words," and persistently studied the structure of some of our best prose authors, he would reap incalculable benefit therefrom. Thoughts are feeble indeed, if ill-expressed; but are all powerful when properly stated.

F. S. Mills favours us with two ballads, which have much sympathetic, but little poetic, merit. We can find only one couplet that is at all poetical. The pale, thoughtful, injured wife of the drunkard opens the door to him after long hours of waiting,—

66

"Twelve years ago this day, was she wed,

Two children had she, two children are dead."

Llieweillyan" sends a poem called "Christabel," a name already made famous as a title by Percy, Coleridge, and Massey. The diction is good, and the imagery well drawn; occasionally the metre is defective,-a fault which careful training may speedily correct. We would recommend our author to read much, think much, and write little, for a year or two, and believe that then his efforts might meet with much success.

"Christabel stands alone, pale and trembling.
The ice-drops of her fear upon her brow
Hang glistening like a coronet of pearls.
A dream of tombs, of arching sapphire skies,
Of ocean's pearly halls, distracts her soul.
Even as a lily wet with tempest-rain

And nodding in the blast, she shakes with fear."

"E-s," who, we are informed, is blind, writes two very pretty poems, which, in their quiet, unaffected utterance breathe as with a soul in them. One we insert.

Gentle praise is crowning
Every hill and dell;
Nature slumbers, owning
Night's enchanting spell.
Still with wild endeavour
Leaps the stream below,
Gurgling ever onward

With unceasing flow.

EVENING.

Ne'er doth night allure it
Sweet repose to try;
Ne'er the tinkling vespers
Sound its lullaby.

Soul! in all thy longings,

None, but God beside,
Can bestow upon thee
Rest at eventide.

"Pictures of Solitude," a very long manuscript by E. P., is too

discursive for a poem.

Few readers care to trust themselves

to twenty or thirty pages of reflections, be they ever so well strung. In this, as in the poems previously reviewed, the leading defect is want of mechanical skill and knowledge: the art of poetry must be studied, if you would be a poet. The A B C of poetry must be learnt, or the eloquence of poetry can never be taught.

We would say to one and all, aim high, look up always; but see to it that your foothold is good. If you tremble at the danger of the way and its difficulties, stand on one side, and let the stouthearted pass you. Occasional effort never yet made a poet.

Hard work is the soul of success. Let those work who will, and those who will, let them play. The sum of each life will be in its successes equal only to the sum of its efforts. To be a true poet, great or small, is the noblest aspiration possible to the soul of man. F. G.

The Reviewer.

Caius Marius; the Plebeian Consul. By THOMAS DOUBLEDAY. Second Edition. London: Smith, Elder, and Co.

THIS Historical Tragedy" has life, energy, and action in it. The language is more distinctly of the Elizabethan age than that of most modern dramas, and the cast of thought is well modelled after the great dramatic authors of that era. As a contribution towards realizing Roman history, and teaching us the secrets of the inner life of these times, it merits perusal. It reads well, and, we think, should play well. The characters are well discriminated, and some of the poetical passages are of intense power, e. g. :

"Night falls apace.

How awful is this spot!

Here fell the bolt of Scipio! And here Carthage,
The naval crowned queen, blue Neptune's daughter-
Strong as the storms, and richer than the seas

With all their untold gems-before the Roman
Sank down in blood and ashes."

We cordially commend this work to any reader of the drama of Britain.

Sects in Syria: or Notices of the different forms of Religion professed in Syria and Palestine; with Observations on the Recent Outbreak, its Causes, &c. By B. HARRIS COWFER. London: Henry James Tresidder.

This is a useful and timely publication, giving as it does, in a few pages, a reliable account of the opinions and peculiarities of the religious sects of Syria, and particularly of those who have been brought into special notice by those recent distressing events which have occurred in that misgoverned land.

The Topic.

OUGHT THE GOVERNMENT SCHEME OF FORTIFICATIONS TO BE CARRIED OUT?