commerce and military strength.

There is something charming in finding a young Indian using our language
with such care for music and words as Mr. Ghose does. Here is one of his
songs:

Over thy head, in joyful wanderings
Through heaven's wide spaces, free,
Birds fly with music in their wings;
_And from the blue, rough sea
The fishes flash and leap_;
There is a life of loveliest things
O'er thee, so fast asleep.

In the deep West the heavens grow heavenlier,
Eve after eve; _and still
The glorious stars remember to appear_;
The roses on the hill
Are fragrant as before:
Only thy face, of all that's dear,
I shall see nevermore!

It has its faults. It has a great many faults. But the lines we have
set in italics are lovely. The temper of Keats, the moods of Matthew
Arnold, have influenced Mr. Ghose, and what better influence could a
beginner have? Here are some stanzas from another of Mr. Ghose's poems:

Deep-shaded will I lie, and deeper yet
In night, where not a leaf its neighbour knows;
Forget the shining of the stars, forget
The vernal visitation of the rose;
And, far from all delights, prepare my heart's repose.

'O crave not silence thou! too soon, too sure,
Shall Autumn come, and through these branches weep:
Some birds shall cease, and flowers no more endure;
And thou beneath the mould unwilling creep,
And silent soon shalt be in that eternal sleep.

'Green still it is, where that fair goddess strays;
Then follow, till around thee all be sere.
Lose not a vision of her passing face;
Nor miss the sound of her soft robes, that here
Sweep over the wet leaves of the fast-falling year.'

The second line is very beautiful, and the whole shows culture and taste
and feeling. Mr. Ghose ought some day to make a name in our literature.

Mr. Stephen Phillips has a more solemn classical Muse. His best work is
his Orestes:

Me in far lands did Justice call, cold queen
Among the dead, who, after heat and haste
At length have leisure for her steadfast voice,
That gathers peace from the great deeps of hell.
She call'd me, saying: I heard a cry by night!
Go thou, and question not; within thy halls
My will awaits fulfilment.

. . . . . .

And she lies there,
My mother! ay, my mother now; O hair
That once I play'd with in these halls! O eye