THE GOLDEN ROSE.

A poor lost princess, weary and worn,
Came over the down by the wind-washed moor,
And the king looked out on her grace forlorn,
And he took her in at his palace door.

He made her queen, he gave her a crown,
Bidding her rest and be glad and gay
In his golden town, with a golden gown,
And a new gold lily every day.

But the crown is heavy, the gold gown gray,

And the queen's pale breast is like autumn snows;

For he brings a gold lily every day,

But no king gathers the golden rose.

One came at last to the palace keep

By worlds of water and leagues of land, Gray were his garments, his eyes were deep. And he held the golden rose in his hand.

She left gold gown, gold town, gold crown,
And followed him straight to a world apart,
And he left her asleep on the wind-washed down,
With the golden rose on her quiet heart.

"AT EVENING TIME THERE SHALL BE LIGHT."

The day was wild with wind and rain,
One grey wrapped sky and sea and shore,
It seemed our marsh would never again
Wear the rich robes that once it wore.
The scattered farms looked sad and chill,
Their sheltering trees writhed all awry,
And waves of mist broke on the hill

Where once the great sea thundered by.

Then God remembered this His land,
His little land that is our own,
He caught the rain up in His hand,

He hid the winds behind His throne,
He soothed the fretful waves to rest,
He called the clouds to come away,
And, by blue pathways, to the west

They went, like children tired of play.

And then God bade our marsh put on
Its holy vestment of fine gold;
From marge to marge the glory shone

On lichened farm and fence and fold;
In the gold sky that walled the west,
In each transfigured stone and tree,
The glory of God was manifest,

Plain for a little child to see!

HENRY NEWBOLT

MR. NEWBOLT is known chiefly as a writer of patriotic lyrics and ballads; but he began his literary career with a tragedy which must not be overlooked if we would take the just measure of his talent. Mordred, to my thinking, is scarcely a success; but it is far from being, like so many modern blank verse plays, a mere conventional futility. Its style is nervous and clear-cut, with a good deal of really dramatic feeling in it. Mr. Newbolt does not, like so many poets, mistake rhetoric for drama, or imagine that intensity of effect is to be sought in copiousness of utterance, or even in vividness of imagery. His men and women express themselves in credible human speech, ennobled indeed, but not inflated and bedizened beyond recognition. Several scenes in the play possess genuine life and movement; and, as blank-verse dramas go, that is saying a great deal. The tragedy falls short of complete success for two main reasons, as it seems to me. First, Mr. Newbolt has handicapped himself by his choice of a theme; secondly, he has handled his almost impossible theme in an undecided and somewhat baffling fashion.

The poet, and especially the dramatist, who tackles the Arthurian legend, necessarily finds himself in an awkward dilemma. A realistic treatment (psychologically realistic I mean) would strike us as grotesque and irreverent; while the possibilities of romantic sentimentalism have been