Farewell, vain joys of earth! Farewell, all love that it not His! Dear God! be Thou my only mirth, Thy majesty my single timid bliss! Oh in the bosom of eternity Thou dost not weary of Thyself, nor we of Thee! How easily his words flow, even when he is saying the deepest things! The poem is full of the elements of the finest mystical metaphysics, and yet there is no effort in their expression. The tendency to find God beyond, rather than in our daily human conditions, is discernible; but only as a tendency. What a pity that the sects are so slow to become acquainted with the grand best in each other! I do not find in Dr. Newman either a depth or a precision equal to that of Dr. Faber. His earlier poems indicate a less healthy condition of mind. His _Dream of Gerontius_ is, however, a finer, as more ambitious poem than any of Faber's. In my judgment there are weak passages in it, with others of real grandeur. But I am perfectly aware of the difficulty, almost impossibility, of doing justice to men from some of whose forms of thought I am greatly repelled, who creep from the sunshine into every ruined archway, attracted by the brilliance with which the light from its loophole glows in its caverned gloom, and the hope of discovering within it the first steps of a stair winding up into the blue heaven. I apologize for the unavoidable rudeness of a critic who would fain be honest if he might; and I humbly thank all such as Dr. Newman, whose verses, revealing their saintship, make us long to be holier men. Of his, as of Faber's, I have room for no more than one. It was written off Sardinia. DESOLATION. O say not thou art left of God, Because His tokens in the sky Thou canst not read: this earth He trod To teach thee He was ever nigh. He sees, beneath the fig-tree green, Nathaniel con His sacred lore; Shouldst thou thy chamber seek, unseen He enters through the unopened door. And when thou liest, by slumber bound, Outwearied in the Christian fight, In glory, girt with saints around, He stands above thee through the night. When friends to Emmaus bend their course, He joins, although He holds their eyes: Or, shouldst thou feel some fever's force, He takes thy hand, He bids thee rise. Or on a voyage, when calms prevail, And prison thee upon the sea, He walks the waves, He wings the sail, The shore is gained, and thou art free. Sir Aubrey de Vere is a poet profound in feeling, and gracefully tender in utterance. I give one short poem and one sonnet. REALITY.