fine
passages, its wealth of metaphor, and the exquisite songs of Amy,
hardly counterbalance the remoteness of its theme, and its over-subtle
analysis of morbid psychic states. It is a poem to be read in
fragments, and has aptly been called a mine for poets.

With Alexander Smith he published in 1855 a series of sonnets inspired
by the Crimean War. This was followed in 1856 by 'England in War
Time,' a collection of Dobell's lyrical and descriptive poems, which
possess more general human interest than any other of his books.

After continuous work was interdicted, he still contributed verse and
prose to the periodicals. His essays have been collected by Professor
Nichol, under the title 'Thoughts on Art, Philosophy, and Religion.'
As a poet Dobell belongs to the so-called "spasmodic school," a school
"characterized by an undercurrent of discontent with the mystery of
existence, by vain effort, unrewarded struggle, skeptical unrest, and
an uneasy striving after some incomprehensible end.... Poetry of this
kind is marked by an excess of metaphor which darkens rather than
illustrates, and by a general extravagance of language. On the other
hand, it manifests freshness and originality, and a rich natural
beauty." Dobell's descriptions of scenery are among the finest in
English literature. His senses were abnormally acute, like those of a
savage, a condition which intensified his appreciation of natural
beauty. Possessing a vivid imagination and wide sympathies, he was
often over-subtle and obscure. He strove to realize in himself his
ideal of a poet, and during his years of ill-health gave himself up to
promoting the welfare of his fellow-men; but of his seventeen years of
inactivity he says:--"The keen perception of all that should be done,
and that so bitterly cries for doing, accompanies the consciousness of
all that I might but cannot do."

EPIGRAM ON THE DEATH OF EDWARD FORBES

Nature, a jealous mistress, laid him low.
He wooed and won her; and, by love made bold,
She showed him more than mortal man should know--
Then slew him lest her secret should be told.

HOW'S MY BOY?

"Ho, sailor of the sea!
How's my boy--my boy?"--
"What's your boy's name, good wife,
And in what good ship sailed he?"

"My boy John--
He that went to sea--
What care I for the ship, sailor?
My boy's my boy to me.

"You come back from the sea,