"And never again. But our hearts did greet.
Whatever path misled your feet,

Voices so true could not but meet.

"Though we have strayed from that place of heather,
Your cry and mine speed on together
Above the Spring and the Summer weather.

Among the stars and in the blue,

What words could never, my call may do,

Speak my love and loss of you."

Poems. By Sir JOHN CROKER BARROW, Bart. Longmans. 1876.

SOME

OME years since we had occasion to notice "The Valley of Tears," which, in a revised form, makes up part of the present volume; and we then expressed our opinion that the poem was remarkable for the quaint simplicity of its construction (justly likened by the "Spectator" to the metrical histories of the middle ages), and the full-hearted fervour with which it gives expression to feelings rarely put so candidly into words, and which, indeed, it is most difficult to put into words at all. We are glad to find a reprint of this poem in the volume before us, for it is not only full of deep, thoughtful beauty of no ordinary kind, but it also conveys to the reader the most singular impression of reality, and of its value as a series of soul-photographs. It runs so entire and consecutive a course, in fact, that it is not possible to convey any sense of its beauty by extracts going through "Twilight," "Dreamland," "Legends" and "Traditions" to the final "fytte," "Mysteries," in which the narrating soul, purified and free, awaits the full glory of God's presence. This latter portion of "The Valley of Tears" is simply exquisite in its spiritual analysis. Some of the lesser poems of the volume also gleam with the same true poetic instinct of delicate analogies and the tenderest shades of spiritual colour; so much so, that we feel a regret that such fine instincts should be lavishly spent upon mere fragments and shreds of poems, instead of being gathered up into some volume, and enriched with more continual, serious study. Sir John Barrow's weakness, indeed, seems to lie in an exuberant facility in throwing off his impressions with too much slightness of rapid touch; and his fragments so sparkle and glow with thoughts, as the dust of Rome is rich with the fragments of the most precious marbles, that we long to see them matured to completeness. A little more care, also, would chasten the exclamatoriness of some of his verse, and lead him to prune that affluence of notes of admiration with which his volume absolutely bristles, and which must surely spring, in part, from the misapprehension of an uncorrected printer.

For instance :

"More of the past, than present, was the Grange!
One half, all ruin! and the other half,

Half ruin, and half habitable! "

And again, where a single note of interrogation seems implied:

"Who else, in meditation, thought as deep!
Who else, in argument, discussed as clear!
Or read, or wrote, or spoke, as well as he!"

(pp. 7-8.)

We mark these minor faults, both because there is such a variety of suggestive beauty in this volume of poems, that it is annoying to be irritated by its small, perfectly remediable blots, and because we hope to receive more and better work still from the same hand. Among the smaller poems, we should distinguish "Truth and Doubt," "Things' Unseen," "Prepared to Die," and the "Prisoners of Death," as bearing the peculiar imprint of Sir John Barrow's mind. We should like to

give entire five little poems, Matins," " "Lauds," "The Hours,"

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Vespers," and "Compline," through which runs the same golden thread of thought beautifully varied. But we have only space for "Matins," in which we take leave to omit the notes of admiration :

I.

"A shadow wakes the earth in spring-
Who sings her Matins-though the night
Has scarcely vanished out of sight-
And twilight covers everything.

II.

"A smile, in Summer, wakes the Earth-
Who sings her matins-though the sun
Has scarce his life of light begun-
And daylight labours in its birth.

III.

"A sigh, in Autumn, passing by,
Awakes the earth-and, in the dark,
She sings her Matins-though the lark
Has not yet carolled in the sky.

IV.

"A frost, in Winter, cold and clear,

Awakes the Earth-and, in the night,
She sings her Matins-though the light,
As yet, at least, is nowhere near."

Songs in the Night and other Poems. By the Author of "Christian Schools and Scholars." London: Burns & Oates.

POETR

1876.

OETRY is a dangerous subject to handle, and has injured the reputation of critics more than all other forms of literature put together. Partial hands have oftentimes crowned a singer with bays that withered before a season closed, and contrariwise, the song has sometimes lived when the detractor has been forgotten. "This will never do," a giant among reviewers wrote of the "Excursion"; but, chancing to link the emphatic condemnation with an immortal poem, he immortalized his own dulness. We will be careful, therefore, to say, not the most we think but, the least we can say of the beautiful poetry in this volume

accord our praise, for praise is due, in a subdued tone. The author revels in the beauty of nature, worships it with every sense and faculty, and, with a mental power analogous to physical vision, contemplates it at once minutely and comprehensively. Yet deeply as she loves it, and eloquently as she hymns its perfections, she finds life in it-if we rightly seize the spirit of her song-the night-time of faith and expectation. Her eyes are wide open to the loveliness that sparkles "in the rippling waters," or blooms" on flowers of a thousand dyes," or falls "in golden light and quivering shade," beneath the rustling boughs, or shows dimly "through the mystic shadows of the night"; yet she sees in them all this supreme value, that they may be offered as gifts to Him whose perfections they declare. The earth is overflowing with beauty, yet it is imperfect, and, to the soul gifted with faith "and caring to behold but only One," only a shadow of the Divine beauty which is sought, as the goal of a pilgrimage, "through the long night"

"Yea, all the fairest forms that nature scatters,

And all melodious sounds that greet the ear,
The murmuring music of the running waters,
The golden harvest-fields that crown the year,
The crimson morn, the calm and dewy even,
The tranquil moonlight on a slumbering sea,-
All are but shadows, forms of beauty given
To tell what my beloved is to me !"

Besides the "Songs in the Night," and equal to them in a literary point of view, the volume contains "Miscellaneous Poems," and some curious and interesting "Imitations of Ancient English Poetry." It is strange that the only flaw we have observed occurs twice in the same poem. "Gone" will not rhyme with "forlorn," nor "dawn" with "borne" (p. 30), at least outside the range of Bow-bells. We do not wish to be hypercritical, but slight flaws show very plainly on work that is highly polished. The volume will be welcome to all who love thoughtful and graceful verse. Even the hasty reader will find much surface beauty in it; but for the cultivated mind that penetrates to the inner sense, there is reserved a revelation-a harmony of spiritual contemplation and poetic fancy-not frequently surpassed.

The Wyndham Family: A Story of Modern Life. By the Author of "Mount St. Lawrence." In two vols. Burns & Oates. 1876.

THIS

HIS "story," which should have been amply noticed in our April number, is from a pen well-known and heartily appreciated by all readers of this REVIEW; and we heartily welcome the writer's reappearance among us as a caterer for the amusement as well as instruction of our Catholic youth. In the "Wyndham Family," however, there are excellent lessons to be found for all ages, and we are glad to see the

honest, vigorous attacks made upon the worldliness, selfishness, and frivolity which are now eating so largely into Catholic society; and which, although they are habits of the most pernicious sort, are singularly ignored, merely because they may not amount to mortal sin. The Wyndhams are well drawn as a family of careless and lukewarm Catholics; preserving their faith and keeping within the letter of the commandments of the Church, while indulging in the most paltry ambitions of common society, and striving in all ways to secure as much pleasure at the smallest cost in this world, as any of their Protestant neighbours. The consequences turn out to be exactly such as might reasonably be expected. The eldest daughter, Emma, a clever, handsome girl, instead of marrying wisely and well, as her fond parents hoped, commits herself to great folly with a worthless suitor, a Captain Baines, whose sole aim is to pay his debts with her fortune. The son, Algernon, misses his alliance with a charming French family, through his want of religious principle and conscientious self-control. Mrs. Wyndham, the bustling, active mother, whose fortune had been good, while her standing in society, lower than her husband's, betrays her origin by being continually ashamed of it; and shows her folly the most egregiously of all in being also ashamed of her brother, John Sanders, settled in Sicily as a wine-merchant, whose rough-diamond character and peculiarities, combined with the highest religious principle, are admirably drawn. There is a second pretty daughter, Gertrude, full of natural piety and sweet gifts, who is much encumbered by the family traditions, and borne down by her more energetic sister's rule. It is pleasant to escape from the follies and scrapes of this nominally Catholic family to the house of Madame d'Héricourt, whose two daughters, Anne and Pauline, are brought up to lead an unworldly, girlish life, and to preserve their fresh, unspoilt youth as long as they can. In spite of all Madame d'Héricourt's precaution, however, Algernon Wyndham makes his way into her house, and into her eldest daughter's heart; so that the sweet, modest maiden, for a while, is led captive by the fluent, beguiling tongue of her handsome suitor, to the exclusion of a certain grave cousin, Eustace Rochfort, whom her mother had hoped would eventually be her choice. We cannot say that this is surprising, for Eustace certainly does himself anything but justice, and under Madame d'Héricourt's forbiddance of all approach to love-making, he behaves like nothing but a tortoise closely withdrawn into his shell. While things are thus going badly with the d'Héricourts— for Algernon was, in truth, scarcely even a nominal Catholic-Gertrude's weak concealment of her sister's entanglement with Captain Baines throws her mother off her guard, and the adventurer actually persuades Emma to go off with him to Lord Selden's villa on the Thames, where his doubtfully-principled friend, Lady Selden, has promised her aid in securing his marriage with his prize. This flight, and the successful pursuit and rescue of the runaway, by the despised uncle, John Sanders, is admirably told, and is the most spirited part of the book.

Leaving the obvious heroes and heroines, the Algernons, Eustaces, Annes, and Emmas, to the full unravelment of their loves and rivalries by

our readers, we must advert, for a few minutes, to the undercurrent of the story, in which we find the true heroine and the real cream of the "Wyndham Family." In the first chapter of the second volume, Mrs. Wyndham, on the eve of a rather anxious dinner-party, summons her cook, Tyrell, often before on the scene, to her aid; and in the course of the consultation, is much put out because Tyrell respectfully declines accompanying some of the younger maids to the play.

"I am much obliged to you, Ma'am,' replied Tyrell, for your kind thoughts of me, but I must beg you to excuse me. I do not wish to go to the play." "Nonsense! You mean, I suppose, that the play does not amuse "I do not wish to go to the play.'

you.'

"But I wish you to go!' rejoined Mrs. Wyndham sharply. 'How can I send those two girls by themselves? I know my duty better than that. . . . . Ah! I guess what it is you think you demean yourself.'

666

...

"I had no such thought, ma'am,' replied Mrs. Tyrell earnestly. 'God forbid I should have such a thought, or esteem myself better than any one else! I am ready to go anywhere in Rachel's or Mary's company, but I do not wish to go to the play.'

"And now,'

said Mrs. Wyndham, will just tell you what my opinion is on the subject: you think yourself humble because you are not fond of fine dress, and have a way of talking small about yourself; but there are other ways of being proud. Did it ever occur to you to suspect yourself of spiritual pride? My notion is that you are full of it, and this is a specimen. Now you know what I have to say on the subject.'

6

"And for what you have said I owe you the warmest thanks, ma'am,' replied Tyrell. Few will speak as frankly as you have done, and warn others of the dangers which surround them within as well as without. No one needs this caution more than I do.' "

Tyrell, in fact, is the single pure grain of salt in the inconsistent household; and, holding on her way in modest silence, she spreads her influence, as far as possible, over the other servants, and over Gertrude Wyndham, to preserve them all from corruption. It will be eventually seen, by the many readers of this tale, that Tyrell proved to be of another position from that she had assumed; but there is so much that is possible of imitation in this beautiful character, and the way in which service is treated in its loftiest light as expiatory self-sacrifice, is so admirable, that we should heartily recommend the "Wyndham Family" to our readers solely on this account.