of all that's dear,
I shall see nevermore!"

Take, again, these two lines:

"Forget the shining of the stars, forget
The vernal visitation of the rose."

There is but one piece of blank verse in the book. This prologue
to "Orestes," by Mr. Stephen Phillips, has strength, is firm in
outline, somewhat tardy in movement, fit for sonorous declamation.
The gravity which I have indicated as a ruling quality of all
these youthful compositions makes itself felt here in its proper
place. We might have wished, perhaps, for more of joyous accent in
the ode to "Youth," by Mr. Laurence Binyon, which dwells less on
the rapture of youth than on its sadness--the melancholy of
Theognis over youth's decay:

"O bright new-comer, filled with thoughts of joy,
Joy to be thine amid these pleasant plains,
Know'st thou not, child, what surely coming pains
Await thee, for that eager heart's annoy?
Misunderstanding, disappointment, tears,
Wronged love, spoiled hope, mistrust and ageing fears,
Eternal longing for one perfect friend,
And unavailing wishes without end?"

Mr. Cripps alone permits his Muse a gravely jocund note in his
"Seasons' Comfort." He, too, of the four fellow-versifiers shows
the greater aptitude for experiments, though it may perhaps be
felt that his touch is nowhere quite so sure, nor his artistic
feeling so direct as theirs.

It is difficult to lay the critic's hand lightly enough upon
poems like these, or to make it clear what particular attraction
they possess. With all the charm of rathe spring-flowers, they
suggest the possibilities of varied personality not yet
accentuated in the authors. Let us hope that the four Muses of
the four friends will not, like the primroses,

"die unmarried ere they can behold
Bright Phoebus in his strength,"

but that we shall profit by their summer-songs, while ever
remaining grateful for their _Primavera_.

JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS.

_August_, 1890.

* * * * *

PRIMAVERA

O Primavera, gioventu de l' anno,
Bella madre de' fiori,
D'erbe novelle e di novelli amori,
Tu torni ben; ma teco
Non tornano i sereni
E fortunati di de le mie gioje:
Tu torni ben, tu torni,
Ma teco altro non torna
Che del perduto mio caro tesoro
La rimembranza misera e dolente:
Tu quella sei, tu quella,
Ch'era pur dianzi si vezzosa e bella;
Ma non