Gosse has been a thorough student of English literature prior to the nineteenth century, and has made a specialty of the literary history of the eighteenth century, his series of books in this field including—'Seventeenth-Century Studies' (1883), 'From Shakespeare to Pope' (1885), 'The Literature of the Eighteenth Century' (1889), 'The Jacobean Poets' (1894), to which may be added the volume of contemporaneous studies 'Critical Kit-Kats' (1896). Some of these books are based on the lectures delivered by Gosse as Clark Lecturer at Trinity College, Cambridge. He has also written biographies of Sir Walter Raleigh and Congreve, and his 'Life of Thomas Gray' (1882) and 'Works of Thomas Gray' (1884) comprise the best edition and setting-forth of that poet. In such labors as that of the editing of Heinemann's 'International Library,' his influence has been salutary in the popularization of the best literature of the world. His interest in Ibsen led him to translate, in collaboration with William Archer, the dramatic critic of London, the Norwegian's play 'The Master Builder.' Edmund Gosse, as editor, translator, critic, and poet, has done varied and excellent work. Sensitive to many literatures, and to good literature everywhere, he has remained stanchly English in spirit, and has combined scholarship with popular qualities of presentation. He has thus contributed not a little to the furtherance of literature in England. [The poems are all taken from 'On Viol and Flute,' published by Henry Holt & Co., New York.] FEBRUARY IN ROME When Roman fields are red with cyclamen, And in the palace gardens you may find, Under great leaves and sheltering briony-bind, Clusters of cream-white violets, oh then The ruined city of immortal men Must smile, a little to her fate resigned, And through her corridors the slow warm wind Gush harmonies beyond a mortal ken. Such soft favonian airs upon a flute, Such shadowy censers burning live perfume, Shall lead the mystic city to her tomb; Nor flowerless springs, nor autumns without fruit, Nor summer mornings when the winds are mute, Trouble her soul till Rome be no more Rome. [Pg 6567] DESIDERIUM Sit there for ever, dear, and lean In marble as in fleeting flesh, Above the tall gray reeds that screen The river when the breeze is fresh; For ever let the morning light Stream down that forehead broad and white, And round that cheek for my delight. Already that flushed moment grows So dark, so distant: through the ranks Of scented reed the river flows, Still murmuring to its willowy banks; But we can never hope to share Again that rapture fond and rare, Unless you turn immortal there. There is no other way to hold These webs of mingled joy and pain; Like gossamer their threads enfold The journeying heart without a strain,— Then break, and pass in cloud or dew, And while the ecstatic soul goes through, Are withered in the parching blue.