in the first part that we hear the trumpet-blast of the social message. Here the verses throb with a realistic agony, a lyric Zolaism, that chains the eyes to the page with a virile fascination. It is so simple, too—the coarse, strong meat of the poetry of first principles. The lines are hot and fervid; the poet’s pulses keep time with the great heart of human woe. This is socialism in verse, anarchism in the guise of a Grecian statue. ‘Outside London’ breathes thick and heavy with the vapours of gutterdom. It is despair, hunger, prophecy, hate, revenge. Francis Adams, a ripe and true scholar, in this shows his devotion to truth and to art. The traditions of classicism are in this volume thrown to the winds. The poet’s muse is a glorified street trull, a Cassandra of the slums, a draggle-tailed Menad from Whitechapel, and her voice is thick and frenzied with shouting at the barricades. ‘The Evening Hymn in the Hovels,’ ‘Hagar,’ ‘To the Girls of the Unions,’ ‘In the Edgware Road,’ ‘In Trafalgar Square,’ ‘Aux Ternes,’ ‘One among so many,’ ‘The New Locksley Hall,’ ‘To the Christians,’ voice in passionate, simple people’s lyrics the socialism which is always felt in strong under-currents by a nation before it appears in literary form, but which is only on the eve of bursting forth and overwhelming everything with its fury, when it does appear in literary form. Rosseau, Voltaire, and Diderot ushered in the French Revolution; in similar fashion the English Revolution is heralded by William Morris and Francis Adams.”—F. J. BROOMFIELD, Sydney _Bulletin_. “DAWNWARDS?” _To the Author of the_ “_Songs of the Army of the Night_.” We—who, encircled in sleepless sadness With ears laid close to the Austral earth, Have heard far cries of wrong-wrought madness, Of hopeless anguish and murd’rous mirth Beneath all noise of maudlin gladness Awail, environ the world’s wide girth— Almost arise with Hope’s keen urging When out the vasty and night-bound North Red rays ascend, and Songs resurging Through all the darkness and chill, come forth! The comet climbs until it scorches The sacred dais that skies the great, Until it gleams on palace porches, Where blissful æons-to-be hold state— Fades, and we know it one of the torches Madmen a moment elevate! And, closer clutching the earth, our sorrow Doth then with desperate murmur cry, “We ne’er shall see or morn or morrow! For never star doth scale the sky, “All men made wise through midnight sable To lead where, safe after all annoy, Sleep soft in earth’s Augean stable The virgin “_Justice_,” the infant “_Joy_!”— Grant this, O Father, being able, Or else in merciful might destroy