volume is clever and interesting.

Mr. Keene has not, we believe, a great reputation in England as yet, but
in India he seems to be well known. From a collection of criticisms
appended to his volume it appears that the Overland Mail has christened
him the Laureate of Hindostan and that the Allahabad Pioneer once
compared him to Keats. He is a pleasant rhymer, as rhymers go, and,
though we strongly object to his putting the Song of Solomon into bad
blank verse, still we are quite ready to admire his translations of the
Pervigilium Veneris and of Omar Khayyam. We wish he would not write
sonnets with fifteen lines. A fifteen-line sonnet is as bad a
monstrosity as a sonnet in dialogue. The volume has the merit of being
very small, and contains many stanzas quite suitable for valentines.

Finally we come to Procris and Other Poems, by Mr. W. G. Hole. Mr. Hole
is apparently a very young writer. His work, at least, is full of
crudities, his syntax is defective, and his grammar is questionable. And
yet, when all is said, in the one poem of Procris it is easy to recognise
the true poetic ring. Elsewhere the volume is amateurish and weak. The
Spanish Main was suggested by a leader in the Daily Telegraph, and bears
all the traces of its lurid origin. Sir Jocellyn's Trust is a sort of
pseudo-Tennysonian idyll in which the damozel says to her gallant
rescuer, 'Come, come, Sir Knight, I catch my death of cold,' and
recompenses him with

What noble minds
Regard the first reward,--an orphan's thanks.

Nunc Dimittis is dull and The Wandering Jew dreadful; but Procris is a
beautiful poem. The richness and variety of its metaphors, the music of