The “Nocturne of Consecration” is impassioned and full of spirituality; it is, however, too long to quote, which is unfortunately the case with the “Nocturne of the Honeysuckle,” another of the finer poems. “At the Station” is instinct with movement, reproducing the picture of the swiftly changing throngs, and conveying the eager expectancy of the hour of meeting. The _Nocturnes_ have also a group of miscellaneous poems, and the volume as a whole, while less virile than _The Book of the Native_, owing to the difference in theme, is distinguished by refinement of feeling and artistry. In _The Book of the Rose_ Mr. Roberts has done some excellent work, and some, alas, that strikes a decided note of artificiality. The least real and convincing of the poems is that called “On the Upper Deck,” which opens the volume. The first stanza is subtly phrased, and also the lyric which occurs midway of the poem; but the dialogue between the lovers is honeyed poetizing rather than genuine emotion. I find few heart-throbs in it, but rather a melodramatic sentimentality from whose flights one is now and again let down to the common day with summary despatch, as in the parenthetical clause of the stanza which follows: Let us not talk of roses. Don’t you think The engine’s pulse throbs louder now the light Has gone? The hiss of waters past our hull Is more mysterious, with a menace in it? And that pale streak above the unseen land, How ominous! a sword has just such pallor! (Yes, you may put the scarf around my shoulders.) Never has life shown me the face of beauty But near it I have seen the face of fear. It may be that an obtuse man upon the deck of a steamer would interrupt his sweetheart’s flight of poesy to envelop her in a shawl, but the details of the matter may well be left to the imagination. It is doubtless one of those passages which seem to a writer to give reality to a picture, but afterward smile at him sardonically from the printed page. Mr. Roberts inclines elsewhere in the same poem to be too explicit; after a most exalted declaration, he says: No, do not move! Alone although we be I dare not touch your hand; your gown’s dear hem I will not touch lest I should break my dream And just an empty deck-chair mock my longing. Here again it was scarcely necessary to qualify the chair, and indeed the whole passage savors of melodrama. These are, however, only such lines as show that to the one relating a matter the least incident may appear to lend reality to the setting, whereas to the reader the detail may violate taste. The opening stanza, mentioned as one of the truly subtle bits of the poem in question, has these fine lines: As the will of last year’s wind, As the drift of the morrow’s rain, As the goal of the falling star, As the treason sinned in vain, As the bow that shines and is gone, As the night cry heard no more,— Is the way of the woman’s meaning Beyond man’s eldest lore.