and Poets"?--

He fishes in the night of deep sea pools:
For him the nets hang long and low,
Cork-buoyed and strong; the silver-gleaming schools
Come with the ebb and flow
Of universal tides, and all the channels glow.

Or holding with his hand the weighted line
He sounds the languor of the neaps,
Or feels what current of the springing brine
The cord divergent sweeps,
The throb of what great heart bestirs the middle deeps.

Thou also weavest meshes, fine and thin,
And leaguer'st all the forest ways;
But of that sea and the great heart therein
Thou knowest nought; whole days
Thou toil'st, and hast thy end--good store of pies and jays.

Mr. Davidson has never allowed us to doubt to which of these two
classes he belongs. "For him the nets hang long and low." But though
it may satisfy the Pumblechook within us to recall our pleasant
prophesyings, we shall find it more salutary to remember our fears. We
watched Mr. Davidson struggling in the thicket of his own fancies, and
saw him too often break his shins over his own wit. We asked: Will he
in the end overcome the defect of his qualities? Will he remain unable
to see the wood for the trees? Or will he some day be giving us poems
of which the whole conception and structure shall be as beautiful as
the casual fragment or the single line? For this architectonic quality
is just that "invidious distinction" which the fabled undergraduate
declined to draw between the major and minor prophets.

The "Ballad of a Nun."

Since its appearance, a few weeks back, all the critics have spoken of
"A Ballad of a Nun," and admitted its surprising strength and beauty.
They have left me in the plight of that belated fiddle in "Rejected
Addresses," or of the gentleman who had to be content with saying
"ditto" to Mr. Burke. For once they seem unanimous, and for once they
are right. The poem is beautiful indeed in detail:

"The adventurous sun took Heaven by storm;
Clouds scattered largesses of rain;
The sounding cities, rich and warm,
Smouldered and glittered in the plain."

Dickens, reading for the first time Tennyson's "Dream of Fair Women,"
laid down the book, saying, "What a treat it is to come across a
fellow who can _write_!" The verse that moved him to exclaim it was
this--

"Squadrons and squares of men in brazen plates,
Scaffolds, still sheets of w