NOVICE

It is near morning. Ere the next night fall
I shall be made the bride of heaven. Then home
To my still marriage-chamber I shall come,
And spouseless, childless, watch the slow years crawl.

These lips will never meet a softer touch
Than the stone crucifix I kiss; no child
Will clasp this neck. Ah, virgin-mother mild,
Thy painted bliss will mock me overmuch.

This is the last time I shall twist the hair
My mother's hand wreathed, till in dust she lay:
The name, her name given on my baptism day,
This is the last time I shall ever bear.

O weary world, O heavy life, farewell!
Like a tired child that creeps into the dark
To sob itself asleep, where none will mark,--
So creep I to my silent convent cell.

Friends, lovers whom I loved not, kindly hearts
Who grieve that I should enter this still door,
Grieve not. Closing behind me evermore,
Me from all anguish, as all joy, it parts.

The volume chronicles the moods of a sweet and thoughtful nature, and
though many things in it may seem somewhat old-fashioned, it is still
very pleasant to read, and has a faint perfume of withered rose-leaves
about it.

(1) A Book of Verses. By William Ernest Henley. (David Nutt.)

(2) Romantic Ballads and Poems of Phantasy. By William Sharp. (Walter
Scott.)

(3) Poems, Ballads, and a Garden Play. By A. Mary F. Robinson. (Fisher
Unwin.)

(4) Poems. By the Author of John Halifax, Gentleman. (Macmillan and
Co.)

SIR EDWIN ARNOLD'S LAST VOLUME

(Pall Mall Gazette, December 11, 1888.)

Writers of poetical prose are rarely good poets. They may crowd their
page with gorgeous epithet and resplendent phrase, may pile Pelions of
adjectives upon Ossas of descriptions, may abandon themselves to highly
coloured diction and rich luxuriance of imagery, but if their verse lacks
the true rhythmical life of verse, if their method is devoid of the self-
restraint of the real artist, all their efforts are of very little avail.
'Asiatic' prose is possibly useful for journalistic purposes, but
'Asiatic' poetry is not to be encouraged. Indeed, poetry may be said to
need far more self-restraint than prose. Its conditions are more
exquisite. It produces its effects by more subtle means. It must not be
allowed to degenerate into mere rhetoric or mere eloquence. It is, in
one sense, the most self-conscious of all the arts, as it