and I admit that on the name he is right. There are, on the first forty pages of J. O. Halliwell's "Life of Shakspere," thirty different modes of spelling the name, of which the one I use in my title is an oft-employed official form; but, undoubtedly, the spelling I adopted is not supported by the authorities quoted in support of it, and there, by some strange oversight, I am, without question, wrong. As to the birthday, I have quoted the date at present, and the critic that then, equivalent to our 23rd of April. I only notice, sans malice, as a set-off in misquotation, the critic's mention of the 25th, for the 20th Sonnet. Humanum est errare. My book was written, estimated for, and, in great part, printed off, before Dr. Ingleby's work, now under criticism, was published an accidental delay in the proof-sheets making mine later than his in coming out. Had it been otherwise, I would assuredly have used it; but I do not think I should have felt inclined to do otherwise than I have done, viz., given a résumé of the whole argument, pro and con, and left the truth to the determination of the reader;-except that I have not misled him by the adoption and incorporation of the results of disputed documents,-and thus far I have silently given judgment against them.

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On the question of the Sonnets I adhere to my former opinion. I have read with care the works, &c., alluded to by the critic, although he does not seem to think so, but I am unable to find any ground for change. The critic and I have different hypotheses, and so do not start fair. I seek an editor-begetter, he seeks an occasioning-begetter. I cannot fancy "the only begetter" allowing these products of Shakspere's muse to get among Shakspere's private friends" if he was their inspirer. It is evident that they were scattered and had been collected, and so begotten into a book by some W. H., who was their editor, as we would say. My view gets quit of the implied immorality between Herbert and Shakspere, and yet conserves all their essentially poetical elements. I may here only announce that I intend shortly to issue an edition of the Sonnets with annotations and an introduction, which will contain a full view of the bibliography of the Sonnets, the several hypotheses regarding them, and an attempt to show that they never had an only begetter, in the sense of an inspirer, but were the product of the occasional hours of an active mind, finding fit expression for its ideas in a then popular style of composition. I have much reason to be grateful, that, with the single exception of that of the Athenæum, every criticism of my little book as yet has been in my favour, and that the originality of my method of exhibiting Shakspere's biography has been freely and generously conceded and commended. I hope that shortly, in a second edition, I may have the opportunity of presenting formal thanks, and of taking advantage of the kindly hints I have received from many critics and correspondents-many of them personally unknown to me, though wellknown to fame.

S. N.

Poetic Section.

Havelock's March and other Poems. By GERALD Massey. Various Poems.

MR. MASSEY has just added a third volume to the riches of our literature. The peculiarity of his poetry is that it seems to be the echo of our every-day thoughts-and his claim to the title of POET rests almost exclusively on this excellence. So true it is, that frequently to one man only in a generation or in a nation is given the power to utter some thought that agitates that nation's heart. The style of these poems is worthy of the thoughts. Mr. Massey is, without doubt, the people's poet, just as Alfred Tennyson and Alexander Smith are poets of the more exclusively learned and more highly imaginative. His thoughts seem like fresh flowers plucked from the greenest nooks of nature, as theirs seem like rich bouquets culled from the richest gardens of the world. The book is divided into three sections,-National, Christie's Poems, and Down in the Village.

The National embraces in its section the poem which gives title to the book, "Havelock's March." This is not the most attractive in the volume. Strong and earnest as is the spirit of the poet, still his earnestness and fire are not his fame's foundations. Gentle words come better from his lips than harsh ones, and gentle thoughts are evidently more his own than fierce ones. For instance, in his poem of "The White Dove," in the second section, classed as "Christie's Poems," there is one verse worth a dozen of his national pieces,

"The hand of Death so coldly clings,

So strongly draws the weak life-wave
Into his dark, vast, silent cave;

Our little Dove must use its wings!"

Mr. Massey excels in lyrical poetry. The sweetness of human sorrow is the inspiration and burthen of his best productions. He teaches, and teaches well, that there are springs in the desert.

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Havelock's March," though with less melody and heart in it than the author of "Babe Christabel" can exhibit, yet shows great power, and is a high tribute to the memory of England's best soldier:

"The warrior may be ripe for rest, and laurelled with great deeds,
But till their work be done, no rest for those whom God yet needs:
Whether in rivers of ruin their onward way they tear,

Or healing waters trembling with the beauty that they bear;
Blasting or blessing they must on: on, on, for ever on!
Divine unrest is in their breast, until their work be done.
Nor is it all a pleasant path the sacred band must tread,
With life a summer holiday, and death a downy bed!

They wear away with noble use, they drink the tearful cup;
And they must bear the bitter cross who go with Christ to sup."

"Honour to Henry Havelock! tho' not of kingly blood,

He wore the double royalty of being great and good.

He rose and reacht the topmost height; our hero lowly born:
So from the lowly grass hath grown the proud embattled corn!
He rose up in our cruel need, and towering on he trod;
Bearing his brow to battle bold, as humbly to his God.

He did his work, nor thought of nations ringing with his name,
He walkt with God, and talkt with God, nor cared if following Fame
Should find him toiling in the field, or sleeping under ground;
Nor did he mind what resting-place, with heaven embracing round."

"We've many a nameless hero lying in his unknown grave,
Their life's gold fragment gleaming but a sunfleck on the wave.
But rest you unknown, noble dead! our living are one hand
Of England's power; but, with her dead she grasps into the land.
In many a country they sleep crown'd, her conquering, faithful dead;
They pave her path where shines her sun of empire overhead;
And where their blood has turned to bloom, our England's rose is red:
They circle in a glorious ring, with which the world is wed.
For us the flower of our race makes quick the sand and sod,
And there, as here, amid our dead, we build our church to God."

Many of our poets have written more exquisite pieces than this. Looking at the whole poem, there appears to be too much of the noise of battle in it, and scarcely enough of the silence of sorrowthe cypress-wreath and the sigh. Its length, and the occasional lapse into the style of the records of the mutiny, are excusable, perhaps, on account of the character of the subject, and the many interesting but terrible episodes in it.

"Hugh Miller's Grave" is in Gerald Massey's own style and vein. True heart and prophet eye only could write,

"Ay me, poor fellow! would we had but known,
And reacht him in that horror of great gloom,

And caught his hand, and prayed that he would bid
Us kindlier farewell: leave us when 'twas light!

"But, never doubt God's children find their home
By dark as well as day. The life he lived,

And not the death he died, was first in judgment.
It is the writing on the folded scroll

Death sends, and not the seal, that God will judge."

The second division of the book-" Christie's Poems"-is to us the most attractive; and the sweetest of all its poems is,—

OUR WHITE DOVE.

A WHITE dove out of heaven flew,
White as the whitest shape of Grace
That nestles in the soft embrace

Of heaven when skies are summer blue;
1861.

F

It came with dew-drop purity,

On glad wings of the morning light;

And sank into our life, so white

A VISION! Sweetly, secretly!

There is one other we must insert; indeed, were it possible, we would include the whole section, all the pieces are so thoroughly beautiful.

แ OUR LITTLE CHILD WITH RADIANT EYES.

WITH seeking hearts we still grope on,
Where dropt our jewel in the dust;
The looking crowd have long since gone,
And still we seek with lonely trust;
O little Child with radiant eyes!
Dark underneath the brightening sod,
The sweetest life of all our years
Is crowded in ae gift to God.

We stand outside the gate in tears!
O little Child with radiant eyes!
In all our heart-ache we are drawn,
Unweeting to your little grave;
There, on your heavenly shore of dawn,
Breaks gentlier Sorrow's sobbing wave;
O little Child with radiant eyes!

Heart-empty as the acorn-cup

That only fills with wintry showers,
The breaking cloud but brimineth up
With tears this pleading life of ours.
O little Child with radiant eyes!
We think of you, our Angel kith,

Till life grows light with starry leaven:
We never forget you Darling with

The gold hair waving high in heaven!
Our little Child with radiant eyes!

Your white wings grown you will conquer Death!
You are coming through our dreams even now,

With two blue peeps of heaven beneath

The arching glory of your brow,

Our little Child with radiant eyes!

We cannot pierce the dark, but oft

You see us with looks of pitying balm;
A hint of heaven-a touch more soft
Than kisses-all the trouble is calm.
O little Child with radiant eyes!

Think of us wearied in the strife;
And when we sit by Sorrow's streams,
Shake down upon our drooping life

The dew that brings immortal dreams.
O little Child with radiant eyes!"

The section, "Down in the Village" is last in the book, and least worthy. But, with one exception, the poems are well written, and well worth reading. The exception is "Farmer Forrest's Opinion of