all sounds from the voice of the little bird to the voice of the great ocean. To these translations men will cling to the last, and in their clinging is the poet’s fame. In his shorter poems, and notably in his sonnets, Mr. Egan is at his best. Here his scope is broader, his touch is firmer. The mastery of musical expression, lacking in his longer poems, is here to be met with in the fulness of its beauty. As a writer of sonnets, Mr. Egan has had great success. In this line of writing he is easily at the head of the younger American school of poets. “A Night in June” is a charming piece of word painting, full of beauty and power. The reader of this exquisite sonnet will feel how deftly the poet has put in words the silent magic of such a night, when air and earth have songs to sing. In the sonnet to the old lyric master Theocritus, the poet’s graceful interpretative touch is equally felt. Daphnis is mute, and hidden nymphs complain, And mourning mingles with their fountain’s song; Shepherds contend no more, as all day long They watch their sheep on the wide, cyprus plain: The master-voice is silent, songs are vain; Blithe Pan is dead, and tales of ancient wrong Done by the gods, when gods and men were strong, Chanted to reeded pipes, no prize can gain. O sweetest singer of the olden days, In dusty books your idyls rare seem dead; The gods are gone, but poets never die; Though men may turn their ears to newer lays, Sicilian nightingales enrapturéd Caught all your songs, and nightly thrill the sky. The sonnet “Of Flowers” gives a happy setting to a beautiful thought: There were no roses till the first child died, No violets, no balmy-breathed heartsease,— No heliotrope, nor buds so dear to bees, The honey-hearted suckle, no gold-eyed And lowly dandelion, nor, stretching wide Clover and cowslip cups, like rival seas, Meeting and parting, as the young spring breeze Runs giddy races, playing seek and hide. For all Flowers died when Eve left Paradise, And all the world was flowerless awhile, Until a little child was laid in earth. Then, from its grave grew violets for its eyes, And from its lips rose-petals for its smile; And so all flowers from that child’s death took birth. To those who have lovingly lingered over the pages of Maurice de Guerin, pages that breathe the old Greek world of thought, the following sonnet, that paints that modern Grecian with a few masterly strokes, will be keenly relished. It is the fine implications of these lines that is the life of our hope for the poet and the future. MAURICE DE GUERIN.