orge Eliot,'
for the 'Eminent Women Series,' which she followed in 1886 in the same
series with 'Madame Roland.' Her first novel, 'Tarantella,' appeared in
1885. Besides these prose works, she has made frequent contributions of
literary criticism to the Athenaeum and other reviews, and of papers and
essays to the magazines; among them translations of Goethe's 'Maxims and
Reflections' in Fraser's Magazine, and 'Personal Recollections of
Mazzin' in the Fortnightly Review.

Her principal claim to literary fame is however based upon her verse.
This is from all periods of her productivity. In addition to the book of
poems already noticed, she has written 'The Prophecy of St. Oran, and
other Poems,' 1882; 'The Heather on Fire,' a protest against the wrongs
of the Highland crofters, 1886; 'The Ascent of Man,' her most ambitious
work, 1889; 'Dramas in Miniature' 1892; 'Songs and Sonnets,' 1893; and
'Birds of Passage: Songs of the Orient and Occident,' 1895.

'The Ascent of Man' is a poetical treatment of the modern idea of
evolution, and traces the progress of man from his primitive condition
in a state of savagery to his present development. Miss Blind has been
an ardent advocate of the betterment of the position of woman in society
and the State. To this end she has worked and written for an improved
education, and against a one-sided morality for the sexes. In her verse
she shows characteristically a keen appreciation of nature. Her minor
poems particularly, many of which are strong in feeling and admirable in
form, entitle her to a distinguished place among the lyric poets
of England.

She died in London near the end of November, 1896.

FROM 'LOVE IN EXILE'

I charge you, O winds of the West, O winds with the wings of the
dove,
That ye blow o'er the brows of my Love, breathing low that I
sicken for love.

I charge you, O dews of the Dawn, O tears of the star of the morn,
That ye fall at the feet of my Love with the sound of one weeping
forlorn.

I charge you, O birds of the Air, O birds flying home to your nest,
That ye sing in his ears of the joy that for ever has fled from my
breast.

I charge you, O flowers of the Earth, O frailest of things, and most
fair,
That ye droop in his path as the life in me shrivels, consumed by
despair.

O Moon, when he lifts up his fa