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Or if upon earth's darksome breast

They find some spirit rare,
Which, bright and true beyond the rest,

Gives back Thine Image fair ;
With thankful, not adoring gaze,

'Tis theirs to look and muse
How glorious the meridian blaze,

If such the twilight hues.
With Ivy, meed of learned brows,

That scan the heaven's height,
Fix where the unseen comet glows,

And count the speed of light,
Thy thoughtful temples now are drest,

Meek souled humility;
To thy dove's eyes appear

The secrets of the sky.

To Love is given to win and wear

The poet's crown of bays;
To trace in bards and sages rare

Their unintended praise.
What first was earthly and profane,

Since Thou hast claimed Thy right,
Is turned into a sacred strain

By touch of gospel light.'

These allusions are now merely touched on in the stanza,

• The olive wreath, the ivied wand,

The sword in myrtles drest,
Each legend of the shadowy land

Now wakes a vision blest :
As little children lisp, and tell of Heaven,
So thoughts beyond their thoughts to those high bards were given.'

Perhaps they were altered because authority for the application of the ivy to astronomers of old, and to humility now, is not easy to trace, and the verse on it is evidently imperfect; perhaps, also, the whole construction of the poem was recast in consequence of Hurrell Froude's criticism (see a letter in his Remains) on some of the poetry being 'Sternholdy and Hopkinsy,' an imputation to which its present form certainly is not liable. The final verse

• There's not a strain to memory dear,

There's not a flower in classic grove,
There's not a sweet note warbled here,

But minds us of Thy love.
-is of the original; but the two added lines give a still deeper and more
universal significance :

O Lord, our Lord, and spoiler of our foes,
There is no light but Thine ; in Thee all beauty glows.'

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A very different note is struck in the poem in the Lyra, on “Ill Temper. It is a meditation for the benefit of those concerned with children, on the two 'evil spirits' that form the special torment and temptation of their otherwise happy age. Sullenness and Passion, compared in the two first verses to the hard, sunless, pitiless, grey frost, and to the wild and furious storm. In each case the sun is there, and one change of wind would render all bright and cheery; and

* So waits the Lord behind the reil.' To Him then should the dumb deaf sullen spirit of the child be borne by urgent intercessions, remembering how He cast out such from the possessed on earth. And in like manner, the passionate temper is likened to the frenzied boy, whose father waited at the foot of the Mount of Transfiguration.

Raffaelle's conception of that scene was dear to the author; and there is a striking sentence in his Prelections, in which he vindicates the poetical propriety of the juxtaposition of the Transfiguration above, and the ravings below, as showing the true calm of the Kingdom of Heaven close to the wild distresses of earth. Here the same idea is present, and is brought forward for the encouragement and comfort of such as feel anger an absolute overmastering force, so driving out all power of resistance for the moment, as to bring them to despair. He bids them ‘wait untired' in prayer and patience and resolution. "Believe and all may be.' The same Hand that tamed the lunatic youth will drive back the fierce spirit of wrath, and give the victory at last. Has not Baptism hoon the pledge of grace to conquer ? and

• Within thee, if thou wilt, be sure

That happy hours strong spells endure,
The seal of Heaven, not all outworn.'

(To be continued.)



(Si vis vere gloriari)
If thou aright wouldst glory,

If thou wouldst win the prize
Bestowed by God Almighty

On those who heavenward rise;
Learn thou His Crown to honour,

Learn in His steps to tread,
Who faint and bleeding bore it

On His most sacred Head.

The Monarch of Creation

To sanctify and wear it

At His life's bitter end.
In this His helmet fought He,

With this in battle stood
Against the ancient foeman,

Triumphant on the wood.

This then the Warrior's helmet,

The Victor's laurel this,
The Diadem Imperial,

The Pontiff's mitre is.
Of thorns it first was platted

To shame and pain untold,
But lo! that Head most holy

Hath touched and made it gold.

The virtue of Christ's Passion

Hath mightily gone forth, And shed on that rude circlet

Its gift of countless worth ; That Passion which enduring

The hard and thorny wood, Those doomed to death eternal,

Hath satisfied with good.

Of evil it is platted

To us who slight His Word; The thorny points deep wound us,

Which wounded once our Lord; But when our sins are purged,

And we in grace abide, Behold, the crown is golden,

The points are turned aside.

O kind, O righteous Jesu,

Grant to us all Thy power, That we may be victorious

In death's approaching hour; So fashion Thou our conduct

In this our mortal strife, That we the crown may merit Of everlasting life.



(De Profundis.)

DEEP are the depths, O Lord,

From which I cry to Thee;
Bend down to my beseeching word,

To hearken, not to see.
A sinner, can I dare

That searching gaze to stand ?
I tremble, knowing Thou dost bear

My pardon in Thy hand.

Look not, O Holy Eyes,

Too closely on my pain;
Such virtue in forgiveness lies,

I fear to sin again.
Dark is the lingering night,

And dark my weary breast;
They watch not for the morning light

As I for love and rest.

I will not cease to wait,

I will not cease to hope,
I watch until at morning's gate

The sun comes up the slope.
O Israel, trust in Him

Who died that you might live,
Who when His eyes in death were dim,

Still whispered, 'I forgive.'
Redeemer that Thou art,

Forgive Thy servants too;
We sinners that have pierced thy heart,
We know not what we do.

M. C.


With silver gleam the moon's soft beams

Fell on the sleeping wave,
Yet o'er the main there seem'd to reign

The stillness of the grave;

Each fishing-boat seem'd scarce afloat,

Dark ships were anchored nigh,
On one alone the moonbeams shone,

Whose flag was half-mast high.

And then I knew while stars were few,

The Angel had come down,
And o'er some brow all peaceful now,

Had held the immortal crown.
His race is run, his voyage done:

I could not choose but sigh,
Sad tears would flow if some could know

That flag was half-mast high.

Shine on, fair moon, and set not soon,

Look down, ye golden stars,
And shed your light on souls to-night

That feel their prison bars ;
For that glad soul who sees the goal,

The heavenly Heaven nigh,
We will not weep, though on the deep
A flag rides half-mast high.






A.D. 1196 TO A.D. 1235.

QUARRELS between the brothers ensued on the death of Béla, and the money which he had left András to fit out a Crusade, was employed by the latter in raising an army wherewith to attack Imre.

Even the gift of the dukedom of Dalmatia and Croatia,* when the novelty had worn off, did but encourage him to believe he might have a better chance of winning the crown itself. An engagement between his own and the royal troops, however, convinced him of his mistake, and he fled to Leopold of Austria. A war between Hungary and Austria must have ensued, had not the Pope and the Princes of Germany interposed, with a proposition that both brothers should join the crusading army then assembling, that the government of Hungary should be left during their absence to the Duke of Austria, and that whichever of the

* This Imre bestowed on him by the recommendation of the Pope, Innocent III.

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