Mr. Crane has many gifts, and has tried his skill in more than one field. The little volume does both author and publisher credit for the tasteful style in which it is produced. Mr. Crane’s head and tail pieces help to adorn his verses, but we regret to say that the book, apart from its pretty form, has little to commend it. The decorative pages with which Mr. Crane has made us familiar in book-form give a subordinate place to his efforts as a poet. He now asks our attention more distinctly than he has yet done to his art as a singer, and we think it must be
"Hark! in the wood thy voice, a lion, roars I Beneath thy breath upon the parched hill Shudders the wasted grass and shrieketh shrill, As though it feared thee ; but thy spirit soars To lash the fossil waves of hill and dale Ye may not move, yet melted make appear Their solid sides, enrobed in rains ye bear Across the valley like a falling veil."
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