sense of beauty. These are the general traits of The Child of the Sea, but undoubtedly the chief value of the poem, to ordinary readers, will be found to lie in the aggregation of its imaginative passages, its quotable points. I give a few of these at random; the description of sunset upon the Bay of Gibraltar will compare favorably with anything of a similar character ever written:

Fresh blows the breeze on Tarick's burnished bay;
The silent sea-mews bend them through the spray:

The beauty-freighted barges bound afar

To the soft music of the gay guitar.

I quote further:

The oblivious world of sleep

That rayless realm where Fancy never beams-
That Nothingness beyond the Land of Dreams.

Folded his arms across his sable vest,
As if to keep the heart within his breast.
. . he lingers by the streams,
Pondering on incommunicable themes.

Nor notes the fawn that tamely by him glides.

The violets lifted up their azure eyes
Like timid virgins whom Love's steps surprise.

And all is hushed-so still-so silent there
That one might hear an angel wing the air.

Adown the groves and dewy vales afar
Tinkles the serenader's soft guitar.

Her tender cares,

Her solemn sighs, her silent streaming tears,
Her more than woman's soft solicitude

To soothe his spirit in its frantic mood.

Now by the crags-then by each pendant bough
Steadies his steps adown the mountain's brow.

Sinks on his crimson couch, so long unsought,
And floats along the phantom stream of thought.

Ah no! for there are times when the sick soul
Lies calm amid the storms that round it roll,
Indifferent to Fate or to what haven

By the terrific tempest it is driven.

The dahlias, leaning from the golden vase,

Peer pensively upon her pallid face,

While the sweet songster o'er the oaken door

Looks through his grate and warbles " Weep no more! "

Lovely in her misery.

As jewel sparkling up through the dark sea.

Where hung the fiery moon and stars of blood,
And phantom ships rolled on the rolling flood.

My mind by grief was ripened ere its time,
And knowledge came spontaneous as a chime
That flows into the soul, unbid, unsought;
On Earth and Air and Heaven I fed my thought,

On Ocean's teaching's, Ætna's lava tears,
Ruins and wrecks and nameless sepulchres.

Each morning brought to them untasted bliss.
No pangs, no sorrows came with varying years,
No cold distrust, no faithlessness, no tears—.

But hand in hand as Eve and Adam trod

Eden, they walked beneath the smile of God.

It will be understood, of course, that we quote these brief passages by no means as the best, or even as particularly excelling the rest of the poem, on an average estimate of merit, but simply with a view of exemplifying some of the author's more obvious traits, those, especially, of vigorous rhythm and forcible expression. In no case can the loftier qualities of a truly great poem be conveyed through the citation of its component portions, in detail, even when long extracts are given; how much less, then, by such mere points as we have selected.

The Broken Heart (included with The Child of the Sea) is even more characteristic of Mrs. Lewis than that very remarkable poem. It is more enthusiastic, more glowing, more passionate, and perhaps more abundant in that peculiar spirit of abandon which has rendered Mrs. Maria Brooks's Zophiel so great a favorite with the critics. The Child of the Sea is, of course, by far the more elaborate and more artistic composition, and excels The Broken Heart in most of those high qualities which immortalize a work of art. Its narrative, also, is more ably conducted and more replete

with incident; but to the delicate fancy or the bold imagination of a poet, there is an inexpressible charm in the latter.

The minor poems embraced in the volume published by Mr. Putnam evince a very decided advance in skill made by their author since the issue of the Records of the Heart. A nobler poem than the La Vega could not be easily pointed out. Its fierce energy of expression will arrest attention very especially; but its general glow and vigor have rarely been equalled.

Among the author's less elaborate compositions, however, The Angel's Visit, written since the publication of her Child of the Sea, is, perhaps, upon the whole, the best; although The Forsaken and La Vega are scarcely, if at all, inferior.

In summing up the authorial merits of Mrs. Lewis, all critical opinion must agree in assigning her a high, if not the very highest rank among the poetesses of her land. Her artistic ability is unusual; her command of language great; her acquirements numerous and thorough; her range of incident wide; her invention, generally, vigorous; her fancy exuberant; and her imagination—that primary and most indispensable of all poetic requisites-richer, perhaps, than any of her female contemporaries. But as yet, her friends sincerely believe, she has given merely an earnest of her powers.

W

way of satire? The Vision of Rubeta, by

Laughton Osborn, is probably our best composition of the kind; but, in saying this, we intend no excessive commendation. Trumbull's clumsy and imitative work is scarcely worth mention; and then we have Halleck's Croakers, local and ephemeral; but what is there besides? Park Benjamin has written a clever address, with the title Infatuation, and Holmes has an occasional scrap, piquant enough in its way; but we can think of nothing more that can be fairly called "satire." Some matters we have produced, to be sure, which were excellent in the way of burlesque (the Poems of William Ellery Channing, for example), without meaning a syllable that was not utterly solemn and serious. Odes, ballads, songs, sonnets, epics, and epigrams, possessed of this unintentional excellence, we should have no difficulty in designating by the

1A Fable for the Critics. New York: George P. Putnam.