We are glad to see this book, rather for the memories than the novelties it brings us. Almost all its contents have been published in the author's other volumes, and there is nothing in this to alter the opinions, either good or ill, that we took occasion to express in a former review of them at large. The most remarkable about the book is the selection of the republished pieces. {144} It only verifies anew the observation that authors, no more than we of the world, have the giftie to see themselves as others see them. Some of the best poems are there, and some of the worst. _The Infant Bridal_ and _The Search for Proserpine_ are perhaps the very two poorest of all the author's longer productions. Still, perhaps the many faults we fancy we see in the tact of the compilation, only come to this--that we ourselves would have compiled differently, and possibly worse. But we meet, all over these elegant tinted pages, lines and beauties that we fondly remember loving of old--fine blank verse, wonderful descriptions, delicious idyls. These latter, by the way, are equally remarkable and unremarked. They are from the same fount with Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus. We cannot resist giving one extract, from _Glance_, p. 64: "Come forth, dear maid, the day is calm and cool, And bright though sunless. Like a long green scarf, The tall pines, crowning yon gray promontory, In distant ether hang, and cut the sea. But lovers better love the dell, for there Each is the other's world. How indolently The tops of those pale poplars, bending, sway Over the violet-braided river brim! Whence comes this motion? for no wind is heard, And the long grasses move not, nor the reeds. Here we will sit, and watch the rushes lean Like locks, along the leaden-colored stream Far off; and thou, O child, shall talk to me Of Naiads and their loves." One more sample of the contents of this volume, and we have said all there is to say. It is an unusual vein for De Vere, but one in which, like Tennyson, he engages never lightly and always with telling success. It is the close of _A Farewell to Naples_, p. 255: