His poverty cowed Poe, and caused him to do unmanly things. Poverty did not cow Sidney Lanier, and never in his life did he do an unmanly thing. Much of the time he was not able to have his family with him. Therefore, the battle that was fought by this unfearing soul was a sick man, a lonely man, a care-worn man, a sensitive man, a very poor man against odds that he knew he could not long resist. In 1905, Charles Scribner’s Sons brought out a complete collection of the “Poems of Sidney Lanier, edited by his wife.” Of those poems we have not space to write. The present volume is unique and to those who value the brief suggestion which fires a train of thought, it is valuable,—exceedingly so. Not all of these “Outlines” are properly so called. Many of them are as complete in themselves as are the Cameos of Walter Savage Landor. Like other Georgia bards—A. R. Watson, Dr. Frank Tickner, Joel Chandler Harris, Frank L. Stanton and Don Marquis,—Sidney Lanier could put so much thought and beauty into four lines as to give one a sense of perfection. For example, “And then A gentle violin =mated= with the flute, =And both flew off into a wood of harmony, Two doves of tone=.” =That= is not the “=Outline=” of a poem; it is =a poem=, perfect in its way and complete in itself. =There was nothing more to be said.= Again, “=Tolerance, like a Harbor=, lay Smooth and shining and secure, =Where ships carrying every flag Of faith were anchored in peace=.” This also, “Who doubts but Eve had a rose in her hair Ere fig leaves fettered her limbs? So Life wore poetry’s perfect rose Before ’twas clothed with economic prose.” And, “How did’st thou win her, Death? Thou art the only rival that ever made her cold to me.” And, “Wan Silence lying, lip on ground. =An outcast Angel from the heaven of sound=, Prone and desolate By the shut Gate.” One more selection, and we leave off: “Look out Death, I am coming, =Art thou not glad?= What talks we’ll have, What mem’ries of old battles. Come, bring the bowl, Death; I am thirsty.” This is no “Outline”; it is a complete poem, =a terribly complete poem=. Like the flash in a night of storm, it lights up a world of raging elements and universal gloom. * * * * * =“Pokahuntas, Maid of Jamestown.”= By Anne Sanford Green. The Exponent Press, Culpeper, Va. In the Introduction, the author says, “We have expended great pains, and much time and thought, to demonstrate that the whole story of Pokahuntas and John Smith was mainly true, and not mythological, and unfit to be told, as some Virginia historians have been at pains to prove. “But really, that it was true that Captain John Smith loved the Indian maiden, and that he was the one love of her life.”