With all the nomad tented stars About him, they have laid him down Above the crumbling of the sea, Beyond the turmoil of renown. This island procession to the mountain, leaving the master to his “irrevocable rest,” Under the spacious melting dark, With all the nomad tented stars About him, is an artist’s picture not easily forgotten. Mr. Carman’s three volumes in the projected “Pipes of Pan” series, including thus far _The Book of the Myths_, _The Green Book of the Bards_, and _The Sea Children_, make new disclosures of his talent, and the title poem “Pipes of Pan,” is a bit of anointed vision that would waken the dullest eyes from lethargy as to the world around them. There is necromancy in Mr. Carman’s words when the outer world is his theme; something of the thrill, the expectancy in the heart of growing things, the elation of life, comes upon one as he reads the “Pipes of Pan.” It is a nobler vision than illumined Vagabondia days, revealing Power out of hurt and stain To bring beauty back again, and showing the Scope and purpose, hint and plan Lurking in the Pipes of Pan, as well as the sheer delight that we noted in Vagabondia. It seems that every mood of every creature has been divined and uttered, uttered with deep love, with a human relatedness that melts the barriers between life and life, whether in man or in All the bright, gay-colored things Buoyed in air on balanced wings. This relatedness, and all the molding influences of nature leading us on from beauty to strength, are developed in Mr. Carman’s poem until they become to us religion. We realize that at heart we are all pantheists, and that revelation antedates the Book; that the law is written on the leaves of roses as well as on tables of stone,—a testament both new and old, given for our learning that we might have hope. The remaining poems of _The Book of the Myths_ are not the best things Mr. Carman has done, though renewals of classic verse-forms in the Sapphic and other metres, and often picturesque in story. “The Lost Dryad” is the most attractive, “The Dead Faun” the least so, to my ears; but perhaps from lack of sympathy with the subject-matter I cannot think the collection, with the exception of the poem “Pipes of Pan,” is of especial value. It is not to be named, still excepting the above poem, with its companion volume, _The Green Book of the Bards_, which contains some of the strongest work of Mr. Carman’s pen as to subject and thought, but which has one pronounced limitation,—its monotony of form.