If another Save all bother, Hold that perhaps loaves grow like parsnips: Call the baker Heaven's care-taker, Live, die; Death may show him where the farce nips. Not I; truly He may duly Into church or church-day shunt God; Chink his pocket, Win your locket;-- Down we go together to confront God. Yet, in spite of these ingenious caricatures there are some good poems, or perhaps we should say some good passages, in Mr. Prevost's volume. The Whitening of the Thorn-tree, for instance, opens admirably, and is, in some respects, a rather remarkable story. We have no doubt that some day Mr. Prevost will be able to study the great masters without stealing from them. Mr. John Cameron Grant has christened himself 'England's Empire Poet,' and, lest we should have any doubts upon the subject, tells us that he 'dare not lie,' a statement which in a poet seems to show a great want of courage. Protection and Paper-Unionism are the gods of Mr. Grant's idolatry, and his verse is full of such fine fallacies and masterly misrepresentations that he should be made Laureate to the Primrose League at once. Such a stanza as-- Ask the ruined Sugar-worker if he loves the foreign beet-- Rather, one can hear him answer, would I see my children eat-- would thrill any Tory tea-party in the provinces, and it would be difficult for the advocates of Coercion to find a more appropriate or a more characteristic peroration for a stump speech than We have not to do with justice, right depends on point of view, The one question for our thought is, what's our neighbour going to do. The hymn to the Union Jack, also, would make a capital leaflet for distribution in boroughs where the science of heraldry is absolutely unknown, and the sonnet on Mr. Gladstone is sure to be popular with all who admire violence and vulgarity in literature. It is quite worthy of Thersites at his best. Mr. Evans's Caesar Borgia is a very tedious tragedy. Some of the passages are in the true 'Ercles' vein,' like the following: CAESAR (starting up). Help, Michelotto, help! Begone! Begone! Fiends! torments! devils! Gandia! What, Gandia? O turn those staring eyes away. See! See He bleeds to death! O fly! Who are those fiends That tug me by the throat? O! O! O! O! (Pauses.) But, as a rule, the style is of a more commonplace character. The other poems in the volume are comparatively harmless, though it is sad to find Shakespeare's 'Bacchus with pink eyne' reappearing as 'pinky-eyed Silenus.' The Cross and the Grail is a collection of poems on the subject of temperance. Compared to real poetry these verses are as 'water unto wine,' but no doubt this was the effect intended. The illustrations are quite dreadful, especially one of an angel appearing to a young man from Chicago who seems to be drinking brown sherry.