An aged filthy hag, with bloated face, Upon her haunches, wrapped in bloody rags, There squats Bellona--splashed with entrails-- --words which do not really horrify us, and did not really horrify him. He shows certain gifts. There is observation at the end of _The Silver Corpse_, and in parts of _The Fawn_. But he strains after effects and misses them. Honest vision and honest feeling may be later discoveries. He would do well, for a time, to subject himself to a strict discipline formally. NAPOLEON. By HERBERT TRENCH. Oxford University Press. 2_s._ 6_d._ net. This is a cheap reprint of Mr. Trench's play, previously published at 10_s._ 6_d._ net, and recently acted by the Stage Society. With the exception of _The Requiem of the Archangels_ and one or two other poems it is certainly the finest thing he has done. Unfortunately the finest things in it are probably those which are least suitable to the theatre. ATHENIAN DAYS. By F. NOËL BYRON. Elkin Mathews. 2_s._ 6_d._ and 1_s._ 6_d._ net. Mr. Byron seems to have read the classics, and is obviously fond of Greece. The unfortunate moon has been compared to many things; this time it is a beckoning courtesan. There are few notable blemishes about Mr. Byron's poems; but he never ends them properly, and it is seldom clear why he begins them. ANY SOLDIER TO HIS SON. By GEORGE WILLIS. Allen & Unwin. 1_s._ net. A volume of lively verses, some of them in the military vernacular. The speaker in the title poem, after long service in the trenches, sums up his feats thus: I never kissed a French girl and I never killed a Hun, I never missed an issue of tobacco, pay, or rum, I never made a friend and yet I never lacked a chum; I never borrowed money, and I never lent--but once. Not a bad record. The conventional poems at the end are competently written; "Bed" has something of the neatness, and something of the allusiveness, of Prior. THE STATION PLATFORM AND OTHER POEMS. By MARGARET MACKENZIE. Sands, 2_s._ 6_d._ net. "These Verses are not all sad--indeed, I hope that in a very real sense none of them are that." They are poems of sorrow and consolation, decently worded and written with a sincerity and simplicity that is sometimes moving. The author has a habit of being _too_ simple. It takes some time to recover from a beginning like "I think maybe the souls of men are bulbs." ECHOES FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. By J. G. LEGGE. Constable. 2_s._ 6_d._ net.