And this, which deals with the old legend of the city lying under the
waters of a lake, is strange and interesting:

The maker of the stars and worlds
Sat underneath the market cross,
And the old men were walking, walking,
And little boys played pitch-and-toss.

'The props,' said He, 'of stars and worlds
Are prayers of patient men and good.'
The boys, the women, and old men,
Listening, upon their shadows stood.

A grey professor passing cried,
'How few the mind's intemperance rule!
What shallow thoughts about deep things!
The world grows old and plays the fool.'

The mayor came, leaning his left ear--
There were some talking of the poor--
And to himself cried, 'Communist!'
And hurried to the guardhouse door.

The bishop came with open book,
Whispering along the sunny path;
There was some talking of man's God,
His God of stupor and of wrath.

The bishop murmured, 'Atheist!
How sinfully the wicked scoff!'
And sent the old men on their way,
And drove the boys and women off.

The place was empty now of people;
A cock came by upon his toes;
An old horse looked across the fence,
And rubbed along the rail his nose.

The maker of the stars and worlds
To His own house did Him betake,
And on that city dropped a tear,
And now that city is a lake.

Mr. Yeats has a great deal of invention, and some of the poems in his
book, such as Mosada, Jealousy, and The Island of Statues, are very
finely conceived. It is impossible to doubt, after reading his present
volume, that he will some day give us work of high import. Up to this he
has been merely trying the strings of his instrument, running over the
keys.

* * * * *

Lady Munster's Dorinda is an exceedingly clever novel. The heroine is a
sort of well-born Becky Sharp, only much more beautiful than Becky, or at
least than Thackeray's portraits of her, which, however, have always
seemed to me rather ill-natured. I feel sure that Mrs. Rawdon Crawley
was extremely pretty, and I have never understood how it was that
Thackeray could caricature with his pencil so fascinating a creation of
his pen. In the first chapter of Lady Munster's novel we find Dorinda at
a fashionable school, and the sketches of the three old ladies who
preside over the select seminary are very amusing. Dorinda is not very
popular, and grave suspicions rest upon her of having stolen a cheque.
This is a startling debut for a heroine, and I was a little afraid at
first that Dorinda, after undergoing endless humiliations, would be
proved innocent in the last chapter. It was quite a relief to find that
Dorinda was guilty. In fact, Dorinda is a kleptomaniac; that is to say,
she is a member of the upper classes who spends her time in collecting
works of art that do not belong to her. This, however, is only one of
her accomplishments, and it does not occupy any important place in the
story till the last volume is reached. Here we find Dorinda married to a
Styrian Prince, and living in the luxury for which she had always longed.
Unfortunately, while staying in the house of a friend she is detected
stealing some rare enamels.