synonym with the sensual—No; but they are homoiousian sometimes, if not homoüsian—and there are readers of Mr. Smith's poetry who fail, excusably enough, to realise the difference. Exception, too, may be justly taken to the pervading tone of this "Life-Drama," as generally feverish, and often cynical—in either case exaggerated and "fussy." How the burning words of Walter are to be accepted, as sparks and scintillations only, not perennial flame, may be seen from the care with which he can forget one "only one" for another: and as an illustration of this feature, so fatal to the emotional claims of the poet's passionate and pretty oaths, observe the argument of one of the sonnets at the close of the volume—
I wrote a Name upon the river sands
With her who bore it standing by my side,
Her large dark eyes lit up with gentle pride,
And leaning on my arm with claspèd hands.
To burning words of mine she thus replied,
"Nay, writ not on thy heart. This tablet frail
Fitteth as frail a vow. Fantastic bands
Will scarce confine these limbs." I turned love-pale,
I gazed upon the river'd landscape wide,
And thought how little it would all avail
Without her love. 'Twas on a morn of May,
Within a month I stood upon the sand,
Gone was the name I traced with trembling hand,—
And from my heart 'twas also gone away.
Cool—is it not? So much for "burning words." The lady comes off the best in this encounter, such as it is. That the whole scene may be purely fictitious does not affect the question before us. On the other hand, the sonnet may be true to life—a transcript of every-day experiences—yet is it false to that ideal wherewith imaginative verse is concerned, so long as sympathy is desired, and the betterment of the affections. We shall be slow to believe Mr. Smith a favourite with deeply-feeling women, however sincerely they may be attracted by the uncommon splendours of his imagery. Of the miscellaneous pieces, "An Evening at Home" seems inspired in large measure by Tennyson's "Morte d'Arthur," and contains passages of terse emphasis and rhythmical beauty, quite worthy of comparison with that exquisite torso. Melody and sweetness of diction we seldom find wanting in this poet—sometimes in luscious strains and "dying falls" of rarest music. It is unusual indeed to meet with such a scrambling line as the first in this couplet,
One great life in my myriad veins, in leaves, in flowers, in cloudy cars,
Blowing underfoot, in clover; beating, overhead, in stars!
Or such an indefinite one as the second of the following,
And send her lord unkissed away to field,
Her heart striking with his arm in every blow. (pp. 29, 66.)
It was assumed by many that Mr. Smith, in the gay opulence of poetic faculty, dashed off his verses at a heat, with princely indifference, and lofty impatience of revision; but we are assured by one who speaks with authority that he even "enjoys" the art of the polisher, the labor limæ, and that almost every line of the "Life-Drama" was actually written
