I passed from the familiar room,
I, who from love had passed away,
Like the remembrance of a guest
That tarrieth but a day.

But, if we can but read into it the hallowing radiance of a tremulous hope, the poem, which as Ellen Alleyne she contributed to the Germ in the days of her unregenerate energies, may be her requiem now:

DREAM LAND.

Where sunless rivers weep
Their waves into the deep,

She sleeps a charmed sleep
Awake her not.

Led by a single star,
She came from very far

To seek where shadows are
Her pleasant lot.

She left the rosy morn,

She left the fields of corn,

For twilight cold and lorn

And water springs.

Through sleep, as through a veil,

She sees the sky look pale,
And hears the nightingale
That sadly sings.

Rest, rest, a perfect rest
Shed over brow and breast;
Her face is toward the west,

The purple land.

She cannot see the grain

Ripening on hill and plain;

She cannot feel the rain

Upon her hand.

1895.

Rest, rest, for evermore
Upon a mossy shore;

Rest, rest, at the heart's core
Till time shall cease.

Sleep that no pain shall wake;
Night that no morn shall break
Till joy shall overtake

Her perfect peace.

THE POETRY OF EDMUND GOSSE

IT

T happened the other day, in the library of a remote house, that I lighted upon a shelf of old Blackwoods, from fifty to sixty years old, and, being confined to the house by wet weather, read largely in them. Christopher North was at his glory then, with his flagrant egotism and stupid bellowings. But what struck me most in the old pages was that, with all his loud Philistinism, he was penetrated with a profound respect for poetry. It is hardly too much to say that poetry was the staple product of the magazine. Almost every number contained long, nightmare poems in Cowperian blank verse by Delta or some other tedious unknown. Mrs. Hemans fluted monotonously. Almost every number, too, contained an article of poetical criticism; even the terrible Noctes Ambrosiana are full of low verses. All this contrasted sharply, I will not say painfully, with modern tendencies. I do not think we are less wanting in respect for really great poetry now, but there is a large class of persons writing verses now which for feeling, expression,

and execution beat Delta and Christopher North's favourites out of the field. At the same time,

the minor poet is the perennial gibe of the jour.. nalist, who would have us believe that the only audience that exists for these amiable singers are themselves. And this is not impossibly the case. But all who take a serious and hopeful view of literature will believe that there are shadowy instincts in the human heart which even journalism cannot satisfy, and the large class of persons -youthful, perhaps, and, as Praed says, "so thankful for illusion "-which the earth is constantly producing, will continue to be grateful to any one who "from the soul speaks instant to the soul."

But between the greater and the lesser lights there are a few living poets who, without captivating an unwilling public, have, at least, extorted a recognition from it: those gentlemen whom the Westminster Budget not long ago represented in a genial caricature as trying the effect of a laurel wreath on their more or less scanty locks before a mirror. And one of these was Mr. Gosse. His poetical work extends over a period of some fiveand-twenty years. His first book, On Viol and Flute, written when the author was hardly out of his teens, was instantly welcomed by the critics as an offshoot of the Rossetti school, but untainted by any of the uncomfortable irregularities of that fellowship. Since then he has pro

duced New Poems; Firdausi in Exile and Other Poems; King Erik, a literary tragedy; while, last of all, there appeared, in 1894, a volume entitled In Russet and Silver. This essay will treat exclusively of Mr. Gosse's poetical work, although the present writer may freely confess his conviction that Mr. Gosse's true vehicle, in which he works more spontaneously, is melodious and amusing prose.

The first point that strikes any careful and critical reader of the volumes I have mentioned is the steady and virile progress that the art of the writer compasses. On Viol and Flute was a graceful, tender volume, of sensuous and picturesque, but essentially superficial verse. In New Poems a certain philosophy, epicurean in tone, began to shape itself. In Firdausi in Exile there is a strong and manly note audible. Finally, in In Russet and Silver the tumultuous impulse is over, and the poet looks out with a serious resignation backwards over a life of genial effort and happy love, and forwards over a gentle sunset slope. King Erik lies apart from the rest, and will be considered separately.

1

In Mr. Gosse's graceful ode, "The Gifts of the Muses," the goddesses of song take away from Daphnis his beechwood flute and give him an ivory lyre, with which, at the cost of secret sorrow, he charms the ears of the world. But