"Nor was the love untrue Which the Dawn-Goddess bore To that fair youth she erst, Leaving the salt-sea beds And coming flush'd over the stormy frith Of loud Euripus, saw: Saw and snatch'd, wild with love, From the pine-dotted spurs Of Parnes, where thy waves, Asopus, gleam rock-hemm'd; The Hunter of the Tanagroean Field. But him, in his sweet prime, By severance immature, By Artemis' soft shafts, She, though a goddess born, Saw in the rocky isle of Delos die. Such end o'ertook that love, For she desired to make Immortal mortal man, And blend his happy life, Far from the gods, with hers: To him postponing an eternal law." We are sincerely sorry to find the lessons of a good classical education applied to so pitiable a use; for if, out of courtesy, the above should be denominated verses, they are nevertheless as far removed from poetry as the Indus is from the pole. It is one thing to know the classics, and another to write classically. Indeed, if this be classical writing, it would furnish the best argument ever yet advanced against the study of the works of antiquity. Mr Tennyson, to whom, as we shall presently have occasion to observe, this author is indebted for another phase of his inspiration, has handled classical subjects with fine taste and singular delicacy; and his "Ulysses" and "OEnone" show how beautifully the Hellenic idea may be wrought out in mellifluous English verse. But Tennyson knows his craft too well to adopt either the Greek phraseology or the Greek rhythm. Even in the choric hymns which he has once or twice attempted, he has spurned halt and ungainly metres, and given full freedom and scope to the cadence of his mother tongue. These antique scraps of the _Reveller_ are farther open to a still more serious objection, which indeed is applicable to most of his poetry. We read them, marking every here and there some image of considerable beauty; but, when we have laid down the book, we are unable for the life of us to tell what it is all about. The poem from which the volume takes its name is a confused kind of chaunt about Circe, Ulysses, and the Gods, from which no exercise of ingenuity can extract the vestige of a meaning. It has pictures which, were they introduced for any conceivable purpose, might fairly deserve some admiration; but, thrust in as they are, without method or reason, they utterly lose their effect, and only serve to augment our dissatisfaction at the perversion of a taste which, with so much culture, should have been capable of better things.