In addition to these plays, Mr. Boker has published from time to time, in the literary magazines, lyrics and ballads that would of themselves entitle him to rank among our most worthy poets. It is rare that a dramatic author possesses lyric genius, and _vice versa_, yet the true lyric inspiration is no less perceptible in Mr. Boker's _Song of the Earth_ and _Vision of the Goblet_, than the true dramatic faculty in his _Anne Boleyn_. There is a fresh, manly strength in his poetry, which may sometimes jar the melody a little, but never allows his verse to flag. The life which informs it was inhaled in the open air; it is sincere and earnest, and touched with that fine enthusiasm which is the heart's-blood of lyric poetry. Take, for instance, this glorious Bacchic, from the _Vision of the Goblet_: "Joy! joy! with Bacchus and his satyr train, In triumph throbs our merry Grecian earth; Joy! joy! the golden time has come again, A god shall bless the vine's illustrious birth! Io, io, Bacche! "O breezes, speed across the mellow lands, And breathe his coming to the joyous vine; Let all the vineyards wave their leafy hands Upon the hills to greet this pomp divine! Io, io, Bacche! "O peaceful triumph, victory without tear, Or human cry, or drop of conquered blood! Save dew-beads bright, that on the vine appear, The choral shouts, the trampled grape's red flood! Io, io, Bacche! "Shout, Hellas, shout! the lord of joy is come, Bearing the mortal Lethe in his hands, To wake the wailing lips of Sorrow dumb, To bind sad Memory's eyes with rosy bands: Io, io, Bacche!" In the _Song of the Earth_, which shows a higher exercise of the poetic faculty than any thing else Mr. Boker has written, he has enriched the language with a new form of versification. Except in this poem, we do not remember ever to have seen _dactylic_ blank verse attempted in the English language. The majestic and resonant harmonies of the measure are strikingly adapted to the poet's theme. The concluding _Chorus of Stars_, rebuking the Earth for her pride as the dwelling-place of the human soul, is a splendid effort of the imagination. We know not where to find surpassed the sounding sweep of the rhythm in the final lines: