These are pictures in strong color, freehand records with pigment, of which Mr. Woodberry’s sea-verse contains many duplicates. He paints the sea as an impressionist, catching her evanescent moods. Aside from the pictorial art of the poem from which the lines above are taken, it thrills with the gladness that abides with one coming Home from the lonely cities, time’s wreck, and the naked woe, Home through the clean great waters where freemen’s pennants blow, Home to the land men dream of, where all the nations go. Mr. Woodberry is an American, and ever an American, whatever tribute he may pay at longer dedicated shrines. His ode to “My Country” is an impassioned utterance, full of ideality, and pride in things as they are, not lacking, however, in the prophetic vision of what they shall be. He trusts his country without reservation, recognizes her greater commission in what has terrified many poets,—the absorption of the Eastern isles,—and bids her be swift to yield her benefits: O, whisper to thy clustered isles If any rosy promise round them smiles; O, call to every seaward promontory If one of them, perchance, is made the cape of glory. In technique the ode has a fine sweep and movement; it thrills with flights of feeling, as in these lines near the close,— And never greater love salutes thy brow Than his, who seeks thee now. Alien the sea and salt the foam Where’er it bears him from his home; And when he leaps to land, A lover treads the strand. The ode is somewhat marred by prolixity, and now and again by the declamatory impulse getting the better of the creative; but granting this it remains a fine rhapsody, redeeming the time to those who think the days are evil, and more than ever proving Mr. Woodberry the idealist, if not, indeed, the prophet. In the Emerson Ode, read at the centenary in Boston, there is poem-for-occasion utterance until one reaches the fourth division, where the rhetoric gives way to the pensive note, I lay the singing laurels down Upon the silent grave,