——youthful Love, Ill-starred, yet trustful, truthful and sublime As ever angels chronicled above— The sorrowings of Beauty in her prime— Virtue’s reward—the punishment of Crime— The dark, inscrutable decrees of Fate— Despair, untold before in prose or rhyme. * * * * * We give a few more instances of what we term “quotable” passages—thoughtful, vivid, pungent or vigorous: Fresh blows the breeze on Tarick’s burnished bay— The silent sea-mews bend them through the spray— The beauty-freighted barges bound afar To the soft music of the gay guitar. . . . . . * * * * * The olive children of the Indian Sea. * * * * * That rayless realm where Fancy never beams— That Nothingness beyond the Land of Dreams. * * * * * Folded his arms across his sable vest As if to keep the heart within his breast. * * * * * ——Violets lifting up their azure eyes Like timid virgins whom Love’s steps surprise. * * * * * And all is hushed—so still—so silent there That one might hear an angel wing the air. * * * * * ——There are times when the sick soul Lies calm amid the storms that ’round it roll, Indifferent to Fate or to what haven By the terrific tempest it is driven. * * * * * The dahlias, leaning from the golden vase, Peer pensively into her pallid face, While the sweet songster o’er the oaken door Looks through his grate and warbles “weep no more!” * * * * * ——beauteous in her misery— A jewel sparkling up through the dark sea Of Sorrow. * * * * * Delirium’s world of fantasy and pain, Where hung the fiery moon and stars of blood And phantom ships rolled on the rolling flood. “_Isabelle or The Broken Heart_” occupies some 40 pages, and is fully as good as “The Child of the Sea”—although in a very different way. There is less elaboration, perhaps, but not less true polish, and even more imagination. The “Miscellaneous Poems” are, of course, varied in merit. Some of them have been public favorites for a long time. “My Study,” especially, has been often quoted and requoted. It is terse and vigorous. From “The Beleagured Heart” we extract a quatrain of very forcible originality: I hear the mournful moans of joy— _Hope, sobbing while she cheers_— Like dew descending from the leaf The dropping of Love’s tears.