It would be easy to quote a hundred anecdotes from these volumes, interesting either in themselves, or from their relation to interesting persons. We must, however, refer the reader to the book itself, and can guarantee him a large fund of enjoyment from its perusal. * * * * * _Poems. By George H. Calvert. Boston: Wm. D. Ticknor & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._ The best of these poems are but of average ability, and together they make but an indifferent volume. They are deficient in fancy, imagination, melody and originality—four qualities of some importance to the reader, if not to the writer. Mr. Calvert is a scholar, a traveler, has studied the best writers of England, Germany and Italy, has had every advantage of mental culture, and yet has committed the impropriety of publishing a volume which would give no reputation to the poet of a village newspaper. Better things than he has included in his collection are born and forgotten every day. The most readable pieces in the volume are the translations from Goethe. We give a few specimens: One says—“I’m not of any school; No living master gives me rule: Nor do I in the old tracks tread; I scorn to learn ought from the dead.” Which means, if I have not mistook, “I am an ass on my own hook.” — For what is greatest no one strives, But each one envies others’ lives: The worst of enviers is the elf Who thinks that all are like himself. — But do what’s right in thy affairs, The rest’s done for thee unawares. — Divide and rule—strong words, indeed, But better still—unite and lead. Mr. Calvert has given a few epigrams of his own. The following has point: Philosophers say, in their deep-pondered books, It were well if each man found his level. Sage sirs, this is not quite so good as it looks, For ’twould send a whole host to the devil. Here is a hit at “great statesmen,” a kind of sharp-shooting very popular with literateurs, who are unable to manage men as they can words and verses: Like plummet in mid ocean sounding, Like him who crystals would be rounding, Are they who rule and fashion laws— Things that are chiefly made of flaws. And yet men dub them great; the while Angels or weep or pitying smile. But why, blind as they are, why rail about them? The world’s so bad, it cannot do without them! If a reviewer were malicious, he might turn the reasoning in the last line against the author, and conclude that the philosophy it so concisely expresses, made him hope that the world could not do without his own poems. * * * * *