series, it was withdrawn, and _Raleigh's Cell in the Tower_
was substituted The following hitherto unpublished sonnet was also
contributed but withdrawn at the last moment, because of its being out
of harmony with the sonnets selected to accompany it:

ON CERTAIN ELIZABETHAN REVIVALS.

O ruff-embastioned vast Elizabeth,
Bush to these bushel-bellied casks of wine,
Home-growth, 'tis true, but rank as turpentine,--
What would we with such skittle-plays at death %
Say, must we watch these brawlers' brandished lathe,
Or to their reeking wit our ears incline,
Because all Castaly flowed crystalline
In gentle Shakspeare's modulated breath!
What! must our drama with the rat-pit vie,
Nor the scene close while one is left to kill!
Shall this be poetry % And thou--thou--man
Of blood, thou cannibalic Caliban,
What shall be said to thee?--a poet?--Fie!
"An honourable murderer, if you will"

I mentioned to you [he says] William Davies, author of
_Songs of a Wayfarer_ (by the bye, another man has since
adopted his title). He has many excellent sonnets, and is a
valued friend of mine. I shall send you, on his behalf, a
copy of the book for selection of what you may please.... It
is very unequal, but the best truly excellent. The sonnets
are numerous, and some good, though the best work in the
book is not among them. There are two poems--_The Garden_,
and another called, I think, _On a dried-up Spring_, which
are worthy of the most fastidious collections. Many of the
poems are unnamed, and the whole has too much of a Herrick
air. . . .

It is quite refreshing to find you so pleased with my good
friend Davies's book, and I wish he were in London, as I
would have shown him what you say, which I know would have
given him pleasure. He is a man who suffers much from moods
of depression, in spite of his philosophic nature. I have
marked fifty pieces of different kinds throughout his book,
and of these twenty-nine are sonnets. Had those fifty been
alone printed, Davies would now be remembered and not
forgotten: but all poets now-a-days are redundant except
Tennyson. ...

I am this evening writing to Davies, who is in Rome, and
could no