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On the other hand, we must admit that there is not a little that is simply thin, and one or two pieces which are even trashy, in this little volume. The long poem, for instance, called "Gertrude's Love," is a disagreeable tale, poorly told, with hardly a line characteristic of Mr. Bourdillon. "Alice, my Wife," is intended for sharp satire, but seems to us bluutblunt [sic] satire, and eminently trashy. "Ella" is a far more lively and successful attempt in the same line, but still it is not Mr. Bourdillon's line. "A Nun’s Dream," again, is obscure in drift, disfigured a little by jerkiness, and not marked by the exquisite workmanship of many of the poems. Nor do we see the point of such a poem as this: —

The difficulty here is with the meaning. How so many could have gained their prayers by the power of death, even though he was still unknown to them, is not easy to understand. You may gain peace or rest by death, but you do not think you gain what you pray for if you die before you gain it. And how half the world could have heard of the success of the prayers offered up to the unknown deity, if they were only gained by Death's agency, does not seem clear. No doubt, Death gives to some the possessions of which he robs others, but as a rule, he makes them wait long for those possessions first, and he would gain no great praise as a powerful deity, we fancy, after that fashion. On the whole, we can only regard this poem as one which, contrary to Mr. Bourdillon's usual habit, is a little forced. But we must not leave a young poet of so much promise with words of discouragement. In the spirited poem called "The Hill-Pass," we find another kind of promise from that of any of the little gems of which we have hitherto given specimens, — promise of fire and passion. It has the ring and force in it of true martial ardor: —