s, power and pride,
And on your sandals the strong wings of youth."

There is no rhetoric here, no empty piling up of fine words; it is a
closely followed study in poetical biography.

The water has its marvels like the air, but they also have hardly yet
secured the attention of the poets. In _A Naval Motley_, by Lieut.
N.M.F. Corbett, published in June 1916, we encounter the submarine:--

"Not yours to know delight
In the keen hard-fought fight,
The shock of battle and the battle's thunder;
But suddenly to feel
Deep, deep beneath the keel
The vital blow that rives the ship asunder!"

A section of the new war-poetry which is particularly pathetic is that
which is inspired by the nostalgia of home, by the longing in the midst
of the guns and the dust and the lice for the silent woodlands and cool
waters of England. When this is combined with the sense of extreme
youth, and of a certain brave and beautiful innocence, the poignancy of
it is almost more than can be borne. The judgment is hampered, and one
doubts whether one's critical feeling can be trusted. This particular
species of emotion is awakened by no volume more than by the slender
_Worple Flit_ of E. Wyndham Tennant, who died on the Somme in September
1916. He was only nineteen when he fell, at an age when, on the one
hand, more precocious verse than his has been written, and when yet, on
the other, some of the greatest poets had not achieved a mastery of
words equal to that already possessed by this young Wykehamist. The
voice is faltering, and there is a want of sureness in the touch; the
metrical hammer does not always tap the centre of the nail's head. But
what pathos in the sentiment, what tenderness in the devotion to beauty!
Tennant had, we may suppose, read Flecker before he wrote "How shall I
tell you of the roads that stretch away?"; or was it merely the family
likeness in the generation? But I know not what but his own genius can
have inspired the "Home Thoughts in Laventie," a poem about a little
garden left unravished among the rubble of the wrecked village, a poem
which ends thus:--

"I saw green banks of daffodil,
Slim poplars in the breeze,
Great tan-brown hares in gusty March
A-courting on the leas.
And meadows, with their glittering streams--and silver-scurrying dace--
Home, what a perfect place."

Among these boy-poets, so cruelly and prematurely snatched from the