anxiety for recognition. Among the best of the new poems is "Tristram and Iseult." It is unlucky that so many of the subjects should be so unfamiliar to English readers, but it is their own fault if they do not know the "Mort d'Arthur." We must not calculate, however, on too much knowledge in such unpractical matters; and as the story is too long to tell in this place, we take an extract which will not require any. It is a picture of sleeping children as beautiful as Sir Francis Chantrey's. But they sleep in sheltered rest, Like helpless birds in the warm nest On the castle's southern side, Where feebly comes the mournful roar Of buffeting wind and surging tide, Through many a room and corridor. Full on the window the moon's ray Makes their chamber as bright as day. It shines upon the blank white walis, And on the snowy pillow falls. And on two angel heads doth play, Turn'd to each other: the eyes closed, The lashes on the cheek reposed. Round each sweet brow the cap close set Hardly lets peep the golden hair; Through the soft opened lips the air Scarcely moves the coverlet. One little wandering arm is thrown At random on the counterpane, And often the fingers close in haste, As if their baby owner chased The butterflies again. This stir they have and this alone, But else they are so still-- Ah, you tired madcaps, you lie still; But were you at the window now, To look forth on the fairy sight Of your illumined haunts by night, To see the park glades where you play Far lovelier than they are by day, To see the sparkle on the eaves, And upon every giant bough Of those old oaks whose wan red leaves Are jewelled with bright drops of rain-- How would your voices run again! And far beyond the sparkling trees, Of the castle park, one sees The bare heath spreading clear as day, Moor behind moor, far far away, Into the heart of Brittany. And here and there locked by the land Long inlets of smooth glittering sea, And many a stretch of watery sand, All shining in the white moonbeams; But you see fairer in your dreams." This is very beautiful; a beautiful description of one of the most beautiful objects in nature; but it is a description which could never have been composed except by a person whose mind was in tune with all innocent loveliness, and who found in the contemplation of such things not merely a passing emotion of pleasure but the deepest and most exquisite enjoyment.