From a collection of press notices prefixed to the volume we
learn that Putnam's Magazine has found in it 'the simplicity and grace of
naked Grecian statues,' and that Dr. Jos. G. Cogswell, LL.D., has
declared that it will live to be appreciated 'as long as the English
language endures.' Remembering that prophecy is the most gratuitous form
of error, we will not attempt to argue with Dr. Jos. G. Cogswell, LL.D.,
but will content ourselves with protesting against such a detestable
expression as 'naked Grecian statues.' If this be the literary style of
the future the English language will not endure very long. As for the
poem itself, the best that one can say of it is that it is a triumph of
conscientious industry. From an artistic point of view it is a very
commonplace production indeed, and we must protest against such blank
verse as the following:

From the hour I saw her first, I was entranced,
Or embosomed in a charmed world, circumscribed
By its proper circumambient atmosphere,
Herself its centre, and wide pervading spirit.
The air all beauty of colour held dissolved,
And tints distilled as dew are shed by heaven.

Mr. Griffiths' Sonnets and Other Poems are very simple, which is a good
thing, and very sentimental, which is a thing not quite so good. As a
general rule, his verse is full of pretty echoes of other writers, but in
one sonnet he makes a distinct attempt to be original and the result is
extremely depressing.

Earth wears her grandest robe, by autumn spun,
Like some stout matron who of youth has run
The course, . . .

is the most dreadful simile we have ever come across even in poetry. Mr.
Griffiths should beware of originality. Like beauty, it is a fatal gift.

Imitators of Mr. Browning are, unfortunately, common enough, but
imitators of Mr. and Mrs. Browning combined are so very rare that we have
read Mr. Francis Prevost's Fires of Green Wood with great interest. Here
is a curious reproduction of the manner of Aurora Leigh:

But Spring! that part at least our unchaste eyes
Infer from some wind-blown philactery,
(It wears its breast bare also)--chestnut buds,
Pack'd in white wool as though sent here from heaven,
Stretching wild stems to reach each climbing lark
That shouts against the fading stars.

And here is a copy of Mr. Browning's mannerisms. We do not like it quite
so well:

If another
Save all bother,
Hold that perhaps loaves grow like parsnips:
Call the baker
Heaven's care-taker,
Live, die; Death may show him where the farce nips.
Not I; truly
He may duly
Into church or church-day shunt God;
Chink his pocket,
Win your locket;--
Down we go together to confront God.

Yet, in spite of these ingenious caricatures there are some good poems,
or perhaps we should say some good passages, in Mr. Prevost's volume. The
Whitening of the Thorn-tree, for instance, opens admirably, and is, in
some respects, a rather remarkable story. We have no doubt that some day
Mr. Prevost will be able to study the great masters without stealing from
them.

Mr.