The Ox hath husht his voyce and bent Trewe eyes of Pitty ore the Mow, And on his lovelie Neck, forspent, The Blessed lays her Browe. Around her feet Full Warme and Sweete His Bowerie Breath doth meeklie dwell; _Amen_, _Amen_: But sore am I with Vaine Travél! The Ox is Host in Juda’s stall, And Host of more than onelie one, For close she gathereth withal Our Lorde, her littel Sonne: Glad Hinde and King Their Gyfte may bring, But wo’d to-night my Teares were there; _Amen_, _Amen_: Between her Bosom and His hayre! To sum up Miss Guiney’s work, as well as one may, in a sentence,—it has no flaccid thought. There is fibre in all she writes; fibre and nerve. Were the fervor and passion which she throws into her songs of valor to be diffused throughout her verse, making its appeal more intimate and personal, she would speak more widely, but scarcely to more appreciative readers than now delight in her individuality. V GEORGE E. SANTAYANA “EMOTION recollected in tranquillity,” perfectly defines the work of Mr. George Santayana. He is a musing philosopher environed by himself. He ‘shuts himself in with his soul And the shapes come eddying forth,’ shapes that have no being in the world of sense, but are rather phantasms materialized in the ether of dreams. There is no evidence in Mr. Santayana’s work that he is living in America in the twentieth century—and upon his own testimony he is not; he has withdrawn from the importunity of things: Within my nature’s shell I slumber curled, Unmindful of the changing outer skies,— and in this inviolate seclusion he enamels the pearl with the nacre of his own spirit. Mr. Santayana’s poet-kinsmen are not to be found in contemporary literature; he is alone in the midst of the singers as regards temperament and attitude toward life. His school is that of beauty; his time that of the gods; his faith the sanctity of loveliness; and his creed the restoration of the fair. He would shut out all the obtrusive shows of nature and life, and dwell in the Nirvana of his own contemplation: A wall, a wall around my garden rear, And hedge me in from the disconsolate hills; Give me but one of all the mountain rills, Enough of ocean in its voice I hear. Come no profane insatiate mortal near With the contagion of his passionate ills; The smoke of battle all the valleys fills, Let the eternal sunlight greet me here.— and once enshrined in this Nirvanic close, where the strife of living had merged into the poise of being, he would repeople the desolated earth and air with the forms of his imagination: