And dew-blanched horns, in whose hollows a child of three years old
Could sleep on a couch of rushes, round and about them laid.

And this, which deals with the old legend of the city lying under the
waters of a lake, is strange and interesting:

The maker of the stars and worlds
Sat underneath the market cross,
And the old men were walking, walking,
And little boys played pitch-and-toss.

'The props,' said He, 'of stars and worlds
Are prayers of patient men and good.'
The boys, the women, and old men,
Listening, upon their shadows stood.

A grey professor passing cried,
'How few the mind's intemperance rule!
What shallow thoughts about deep things!
The world grows old and plays the fool.'

The mayor came, leaning his left ear--
There were some talking of the poor--
And to himself cried, 'Communist!'
And hurried to the guardhouse door.

The bishop came with open book,
Whispering along the sunny path;
There was some talking of man's God,
His God of stupor and of wrath.

The bishop murmured, 'Atheist!
How sinfully the wicked scoff!'
And sent the old men on their way,
And drove the boys and women off.

The place was empty now of people;
A cock came by upon his toes;
An old horse looked across the fence,
And rubbed along the rail his nose.

The maker of the stars and worlds
To His own house did Him betake,
And on that city dropped a tear,
And now that city is a lake.

Mr. Yeats has a great deal of invention, and some of the poems in his
book, such as Mosada, Jealousy, and The Island of Statues, are very
finely conceived. It is impossible to doubt, after reading his present
volume, that he will some day give us work of high import. Up to this he
has been merely trying the strings of his instrument, running over the
keys.

* * * * *

Lady Munster's Dorinda is an exceedingly clever novel. The heroine is a
sort of well-born Becky Sharp, only much more beautiful than Becky, or at
least than Thackeray's portraits of her, which, however, have always
seemed to me rather ill-natured. I feel sure that Mrs. Rawdon Crawley
was extremely pretty, and I have never understood how it was that
Thackeray could caricature with his pencil so fascinating a creation of
his pen. In the first chapter of Lady Munster's novel we find Dorinda at
a fashionable school, and