Goodchild does not possess Mr. Armstrong's literary touch, but his
Somnia Medici is distinguished by a remarkable quality of forcible and
direct expression. The poem that opens his volume, Myrrha, or A Dialogue
on Creeds, is quite as readable as a metrical dialogue on creeds could
possibly be; and The Organ Builder is a most romantic story charmingly
told. Dr. Goodchild seems to be an ardent disciple of Mr. Browning, and
though he may not be able to reproduce the virtues of his master, at
least he can echo his defects very cleverly. Such a verse as--

'Tis the subtle essayal
Of the Jews and Judas,
Such lying lisp
Might hail a will-o'-the-wisp,
A thin somebody--Theudas--

is an excellent example of low comedy in poetry. One of the best poems
in the book is The Ballad of Three Kingdoms. Indeed, if the form were
equal to the conception, it would be a delightful work of art; but Dr.
Goodchild, though he may be a master of metres, is not a master of music
yet. His verse is often harsh and rugged. On the whole, however, his
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
its lines, the fine opulence of its imagery, all seem to point to a new
poet. Faults, it is true, there are in abundance; but they are faults
that come from want of trouble, not from want of taste. Mr.