A young lady who seeks for a 'song surpassing sense,' and tries to
reproduce Mr. Browning's mode of verse for our edification, may seem to
be in a somewhat parlous state. But Miss Caroline Fitz Gerald's work is
better than her aim. Venetia Victrix is in many respects a fine poem. It
shows vigour, intellectual strength, and courage. The story is a strange
one. A certain Venetian, hating one of the Ten who had wronged him and
identifying his enemy with Venice herself, abandons his native city and
makes a vow that, rather than lift a hand for her good, he will give his
soul to Hell. As he is sailing down the Adriatic at night, his ship is
suddenly becalmed and he sees a huge galley

where sate
Like counsellors on high, exempt, elate,
The fiends triumphant in their fiery state,

on their way to Venice. He has to choose between his own ruin and the
ruin of his city. After a struggle, he determines to sacrifice himself
to his rash oath.

I climbed aloft. My brain had grown one thought,
One hope, one purpose. And I heard the hiss
Of raging disappointment, loth to miss
Its prey--I heard the lapping of the flame,
That through the blenched figures went and came,
Darting in frenzy to the devils' yell.
I set that cross on high, and cried: 'To hell
My soul for ever, and my deed to God!
Once Venice guarded safe, let this vile clod
Drift where fate will!'
And then (the hideous laugh
Of fiends in full possession, keen to quaff
The wine of one new soul not weak with tears,
Pealing like ruinous thunder in mine ears)
I fell, and heard no more. The pale day broke
Through lazar-windows, when once more I woke,
Remembering I might no more dare to pray.

Venetia Victrix is followed by Ophelion, a curious lyrical play whose
dramatis personae consist of Night, Death, Dawn and a Scholar. It is
intricate rather than musical, but some of the songs are graceful--notably
one beginning

Lady of heaven most pure and holy,
Artemis, fleet as the flying deer,
Glide through the dusk like a silver shadow,
Mirror thy brow in the lonely mere.

Miss Fitz Gerald's volume is certainly worth reading.

Mr. Richard Le Gallienne's little book, Volumes in Folio as he quaintly
calls it, is full of dainty verse and delicate fancy. Lines such as

And lo! the white face of the dawn
Yearned like a ghost's against the pane,
A sobbing ghost amid the rain;
Or like a chill and pallid rose
Slowly upclimbing from the lawn,

strike, with their fantastic choice of metaphors, a pleasing note. At
present Mr. Le Gallienne's muse seems to devote herself entirely to the
worship of books, and Mr. Le Gallienne himself is steeped in literary
traditions, making Keats his model and seeking to reproduce something of
Keats's richness and affluence of imagery.