The poem, “To My Brother,” is one that would have made the author’s reputation, even if he had written nothing else; and “Freedom” contains stanzas that but few other living poets could have penned. To say that it exhibits the power of the fourth canto of “Childe Harold,” would imply imitation, of which certainly no one can accuse Judge Conrad. But we may remark that it has the same nervous style, the same exalted imagination, with an original conception that is all its own. In perusing this and other poems in this volume we instinctively regret that Judge Conrad has not devoted himself entirely to poetry. Such powers as his, concentrated on a pursuit so congenial to him, could not but have produced results that would have adorned American literature, not only temporarily, but throughout all time. We cannot take leave of our author without going back to the dedication, which is addressed to the poet’s father, and which, though often quoted in print since the appearance of the book, we venture to quote again. TO JOHN CONRAD, ESQ. How much that Young Time gave hath Old Time ta’en; Snatching his blessings back with churlish haste, And leaving life a wreck-encumbered waste! And yet I murmur not—for you remain! You and my mother, and the hoarded wealth Of home, and love, and high and hearted thought, Which Youth in Memory’s wizard woof enwrought. These are “laid up” where Time’s ungentle stealth Can reach them not. And ’tis a joy to bring This humble garland, woven in the wild. Back to the hearth and roof-tree of the child: The wearied heart bears home its offering. If it relume the approving smile of yore— Guerdon and glory then—father, I crave no more. * * * * * _Poems. By Richard Henry Stoddard. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 16mo._