From the hour I saw her first, I was entranced,
   Or embosomed in a charmed world, circumscribed
   By its proper circumambient atmosphere,
   Herself its centre, and wide pervading spirit. 
   The air all beauty of colour held dissolved,
   And tints distilled as dew are shed by heaven.

Mr. Griffiths’ Sonnets and Other Poems are very simple, which is a good thing, and very sentimental, which is a thing not quite so good.  As a general rule, his verse is full of pretty echoes of other writers, but in one sonnet he makes a distinct attempt to be original and the result is extremely depressing.

   Earth wears her grandest robe, by autumn spun,
   Like some stout matron who of youth has run
   The course, . . .

is the most dreadful simile we have ever come across even in poetry.  Mr. Griffiths should beware of originality.  Like beauty, it is a fatal gift.

Imitators of Mr. Browning are, unfortunately, common enough, but imitators of Mr. and Mrs. Browning combined are so very rare that we have read Mr. Francis Prevost’s Fires of Green Wood with great interest.  Here is a curious reproduction of the manner of Aurora Leigh: 

   But Spring! that part at least our unchaste eyes
   Infer from some wind-blown philactery,
   (It wears its breast bare also)—­chestnut buds,
   Pack’d in white wool as though sent here from heaven,
   Stretching wild stems to reach each climbing lark
   That shouts against the fading stars.

And here is a copy of Mr. Browning’s mannerisms.  We do not like it quite so well: 

      If another
      Save all bother,
   Hold that perhaps loaves grow like parsnips: 
      Call the baker
      Heaven’s care-taker,
   Live, die; Death may show him where the farce nips. 
      Not I; truly
      He may duly
   Into church or church-day shunt God;
      Chink his pocket,
      Win your locket;—­
   Down we go together to confront God.

Yet, in spite of these ingenious caricatures there are some good poems, or perhaps we should say some good passages, in Mr. Prevost’s volume.  The Whitening of the Thorn-tree, for instance, opens admirably, and is, in some respects, a rather remarkable story.  We have no doubt that some day Mr. Prevost will be able to study the great masters without stealing from them.

Mr. John Cameron Grant has christened himself ‘England’s Empire Poet,’ and, lest we should have any doubts upon the subject, tells us that he ‘dare not lie,’ a statement which in a poet seems to show a great want of courage.  Protection and Paper-Unionism are the gods of Mr. Grant’s idolatry, and his verse is full of such fine fallacies and masterly misrepresentations that he should be made Laureate to the Primrose League at once.  Such a stanza as—­

   Ask the ruined Sugar-worker if he loves the foreign beet—­
   Rather, one can hear him answer, would I see my children eat—­