Reviews.

in itself a mistaken one , Ave note that the i / reat " minnesinger" has gone back to a classical subject . In our opinion " classicalisra" has been overdone ; everybody is well nigh sick of these unreal emotions , and these forced sympathies , the earthly fires , the doubtful morality of mythic heroes

and heroines cease to fascinate or interest us . and despite Mr . Swinburne ' s flow of bounding verse , we believe that such a taste like many another fashion if the " chic" of the moment , is doomed to speedy oblivion and neglect .

In fact it cannot Avell be otherwise , if it be correct as Ave hold , that one of the main elements of poetry is its truth . The thoughtful and the refined , the serious aud

the real reader will not much longer be satisfied ivifch the husks of classic legends , or the Avords and ways , and ideas ancl acts of heroes of unhistorical reality , of heroines of questionable propriety . We pass by , then , " The Masque of Pandora " —the one classical poem—as well as the

" Hanging of the Crane , " and " Morituri Salutamus , " all , however , very striking in their way , and come to the songs and sonnets , as we . think them of excpiisite beauty . It is possible that in another number

we may give " Morituri Salutamus , " as it is in itself a most poetic production . What can be prettier than these homel y "Travels . by the Fireside" ?

"The ceaseless rain is falling fast , And yonder gilded vane , Immovable for three days past , Points to the misty main . " It drives me in upon myself And to the fireside gleams ,

To pleasant books that croAvd my shelf , And still more pleasant dreams . " I read whatever bards have sung Of lands beyond the sea , And the bright days Avhen I was young Come thronging back to me .

" In fancy I can hear again The Al pine torrent ' s roar , The mule-bells on the hills of Spain , The sea at Elsinore . 1 1 see the convent ' s gleaming wall Rise from its groves of pine , And towers of old cathedrals tall , And castles by the Rhine .

" I journey on by park and spire , Beneath centennial trees , Through fields with poppies all on fire , And gleams of distant seas . " I fear no more the dust and heat , No more I feel fatigue ,

While journeying with another ' s feet O ' er many a lengthening league . " Let others traverse sea and land , And toil through various climes , I turn the world round with my hand Reading these poets' rhymes .

" From them I learn Avhatever lies Beneath each changing zone , And see , Avhen looking Avith their eyes , Better than with mine own . " HOAV striking is this poetic description

of Cadenabbia , Lake Como : — " No sound of wheels or hoof-beat breaks The silence of the summer day , As by the loveliest of all lakes I while the idle hours away . " I pace the leafy colonnade

Where level branches of the plane Above me weave a roof of shade Impervious to the sun and rain . " At times a sudden rush of air

Flutters the lazy leaves o erhead , And g leams of sunshine toss and flare Like torches doAvn the path I tread . " By Somariva ' s garden gate I make the marble stairs my seat , And hear the water , as I wait ,

Lapping the steps beneath my feet . " The undulation sinks and swells Along the stony parapets , And far aAvay the floating bells Tinkle upon the fisher ' s nets . " Silent and slowby tower and toivn

, The freighted barges come and go , Their pendant shadows gliding down By town and tower submerged below " The hills sweep upward from the shore , With villas scattered one by one Upon their wooded spurs , and loAver

Bellaggio blazing in the sun . " And dimly seen , a tangled mass Of Avails and Avoods , of light and shade , Stands beckoning up the Stelvio Pass Varenna with its white cascade .