This is one of the most delightful volumes which we have met with for many a day. We have long known and admired the fugitive poems of Mr. Cooke, and now heartily welcome our old favorites, with their new companions, in the beautiful dress which the publishers have given them. In the “Proem To Emily” there is an exquisite freshness which delights us exceedingly. We hardly know how to characterize the peculiar beauty of its spirit; but it seems, while reading it, as if we were dreaming in the delicious shade of quiet trees, and looking down upon golden valleys, wherein pass to and fro the valiant knights, stately dames, and lovely maids of the misty days of chivalry. So it _seems_ while perusing the proem, but in the “Master of Bolton,” we have the reality, and it no longer seems. This poem, while being in Mr. Cooke’s peculiar and happiest vein, has about it a dash, which strikes us as Scott-like, and a spice of the “Christabel;” not in a degree, however, which could be said to amount to imitation, but evincing rather, a mind sensitive to the same romantic impressions. What could be more beautiful and graphic than the following characteristic sketch—or rather let us say picture, which we extract from the “Master of Bolton?” “All heard a merry signal cry, And a swift heron, from a marsh, Mounted with sudden scream, and harsh, Beating the air in wild alarm. Then hawks were cast from many an arm; And it was a gallant sight to see The fleet birds tower so valiantly, Each for the vanguard challenging, But none went forth so swift of wing— Mounted so boldly on the wind, As the brave bird of Jocelind. With winnow and soar he won the height At point above the quarry’s flight, And balanced in air, and made his stoop; But the swift heron shunned the swoop, And, wheeling aside, a moment stayed, Just over the gazing cavalcade; A wild-eyed, terror-stricken bird The Kentish hawk had canceliered, But now drove back upon his prey, Ire-whetted for the fresh assay. The lady’s heart with pity filled, The quarry’s mortal dread to see, And in her gentleness she willed To ward its dire extremity; With uplift hands and eager eyes, And cheeks bereft of their rosy dyes, ‘Gawen, my Gawen! come back,’ she cried, The hawk, true vassal, turned aside, Doubtful, upon his pinions wide, Then, like a servant of a charm, Sank to his perch on the lady’s arm, The damsel in her loveliness, Made lovelier by that kind distress, Repaid the bold bird’s loyalty With gentleness of hand and eye. That silver call, so sweet to hear, When will it die on the master’s ear? ‘My Gawen—come back!’ the truth to say, He pondered the words for many a day.” It must be remembered that the bird had been named in honor of his former owner, the Master of Bolton, and this was he “Who pondered the words for many a day.”