These lines well illustrate the fact that true emotion is not literary nor self-observant, and does not cast about for some rare image in which to enshrine itself. Here is the simplest Saxon, and wholly without ornament, yet who could be unconscious of the heart-beat of life in the words? In her poem, “In Extremis,” one is moved by the same intensity of feeling expressed in the litany imploring deliverance from fear. Of the more purely devotional poems, “Hora Christi” is perhaps the most reverent, and instinct with delicate simplicity. It is a song of the spirit, interpreting a mood whose springs are deep in the pain of life, but whose hidden wells have turned to sweetness and healing. It is not philosophically penetrative, but a tender, beautiful song warm with sincerity of feeling: Sweet is the time for joyous folk Of gifts and minstrelsy; Yet I, O lowly-hearted One, Crave but Thy company. On lonesome road, beset with dread, My questing lies afar. I have no light, save in the east The gleaming of Thy star. In cloistered aisles they keep to-day Thy feast, O living Lord! With pomp of banner, pride of song, And stately sounding word. Mute stand the kings of power and place, While priests of holy mind Dispense Thy blessed heritage Of peace to all mankind. I know a spot where budless twigs Are bare above the snow, And where sweet winter-loving birds Flit softly to and fro; There with the sun for altar-fire, The earth for kneeling-place, The gentle air for chorister, Will I adore Thy face. Loud, underneath the great blue sky, My heart shall pæan sing, The gold and myrrh of meekest love Mine only offering. Bliss of Thy birth shall quicken me; And for Thy pain and dole Tears are but vain, so I will keep The silence of the soul. In glancing over _The Road to Castaly_, one notes many poems that might perhaps have represented it better than those chosen, such as “The Return,” “The Unseen Fellowship,” “Mariners,” “Forewarned,” and “Seaward Bound;” but sufficient have been cited to show the quality of the volume and the sympathetic touch which Miss Brown possesses. Her nature poems range from the most exuberant fancy to a Keats-like richness and ripeness of phrase; and her miscellaneous verse from the tender, reverential note of the lyric last quoted to the trenchant scathing lines of “The Slanderer.” It is, in brief, such work as combines feeling and distinction, and leaves one spiritually farther on his way than it found him. [2] Copyright, 1903, by Harper and Brothers. XIII RICHARD BURTON