Withdrew into the depths of gloom; And wrapt the guilt-shak'n earth in deep untimely night. Heath. Now glory to the God, that wakes With vengeance in his fiery speed, To wreak his wrath impatient breaks On every guilty godless head; Hasty he mounts his early road, And pours his brightest beams abroad: And looks down fierce with jocund light To see his fane avenged, his vindicated rite. Chris. Now glory to the Christ, whose love Even now prepares our seats of rest, And in his golden courts above Enrolls us 'mid his chosen blest; Even now our martyr robes of light Are weaving of heaven's purest white; And we, before thy course is done, Shall shine more bright than thou, oh vainly-worshipp'd Sun! We shall conclude with a very long extract, being the whole of the last twenty pages of Mr Milman's volume. The reader is to understand that Olybius, the prefect, has entrusted the superintendance of the execution to Vopiscus, under the notion that Margarita's resolution would certainly fail when she came into the actual contact of mortal agony, and had witnessed the sufferings of her companions. Margarita, seized with a sudden transport of holy enthusiasm, strikes the strings of the sacred lyre of Apollo, and while all around are in hopes she has reverted to the religion of her temple, she sings as follows: Mar. What means yon blaze on high? The empyrean sky Like the rich veil of some proud fane is rending. I see the star-paved land, Some with their wings dispread, As on some mission of God's love de parting, Like flames from midnight conflagration starting; Behold the appointed messengers are they, And nearest earth they wait to waft our souls away. Higher and higher still The jasper courts of the everlasting dwelling. VOL. XI. ears, Hath seem'd the concert sweet of the harmonious spheres. Still my rapt spirit mounts, And lo! beside the founts Of flowing light Christ's chosen Saints reclining; Distinct amid the blaze Their palm-crown'd heads they raise, Their white robes even through that o'erpowering lustre shining. Each in his place of state, Long the bright Twelve have sate, O'er the celestial Sion high uplifted; While those with deep prophetic raptures gifted, Where Life's glad river rolls its tideless streams, Enjoy the full completion of their heavenly dreams. Again-I see again The great victorious train, The blood-red robes they wear Even their immortal limbs, the signs of wounds disclosing. Oh, holy Stephen! thou When under the heap'd stones in an- Thy clasping hands were fondly spread to heaven, And thy last accents pray'd thy foes might be forgiven. Beyond! ah, who is there "Tis he 'tis he, the Son of Man ap- At the right hand of One, That sun-eyed seraph Host behold with O'er him the rainbow springs, Hark-thunders from his throne, like The Christ! the Christ commands us to his home! Jesus, Redeemer, Lord, we come, we come, we come! 2 M I do remember, when thy mother pass'd The victims, each to his appointed place. The Lord Almighty doth but take the mortal life he giveth. Glory! Glory Glory! the Lord Almighty reigneth, He who forfeits earthly life, a life celestial gaineth. Cal. Why do ye hold me back?-My child! they bind me With the hard fetters of their arms-thou Apollo triumphs! Call. Thou sayst not so, she will not sacrifice My child! I look'd not yet for this. The above. Charinus. Call. Back, thou foul wretch! I rush'd not forth to thee. Char. Foul wretch, indeed! I have forsworn my God, The blinding flames scorch'd up into mine eyes; And the false devils murmur'd all around me Soft sounds of water. Hurry him away! The Multitude. Io! Io Paan! Hah! they point at me, Io Triumphe! Char. The angels from the clouds, my blissful brethren, That mount in radiance: ere they're lost in light, With sad, and solemn, and reproachful voices They call me Judas—Judas, that betray'd, That murder'd his blest master-and himself Accurst of men and outcast from thy fold, Oh Christ! and for my pride ? why then I'll wrap My soul in stern obduracy, and live Olyb. Give him the knife of sacrifice. Char. Now Down! Down! "Tis wet, and reeks with my Redeemer's blood. It is nothing hideous'Tis but the enemy of our faith-She died Nobly, in truth-but Call. Dead! she is not dead! Thou liest! I have his oath, the Prefect's oath; I had forgot it in my fears, but now Officer. He's fled. Olyb. Officer. "Tis vain. He cried aloud-"The devil hath wrestled with me, like these? Olyb. Slave! Slave! dost mock me? And vanquish'd!" and he plunged the That this be false, than if thou'dst found sacred knife vice? Macer. So rapid Ah, Before earth's throne she chose the lowly tomb, The vale of tears with willing footsteps trod, Olyb. Not a word! Thou think'st I'll Bearing her Cross with thee, incarnate Son of God! Sing to the Lord! it is not shed in vain, The blood of martyrs! from its freshening rain High springs the Church like some fountshadowing palm; The nations crowd beneath its branching shade, Of its green leaves are kingly diadems made, And wrapt within its deep embosoming calm Earth sinks to slumber like the breezeless deep, Mine hand shall never grasp thee more. And war's tempestuous vultures fold their Vopiscus, wings and sleep. Sing to the Lord! no more the Angels fly Far in the bosom of the stainless sky The sound of fierce licentious sacrifice. From shrined alcove, and stately pedestal, The marble Gods in cumbrous ruin fall, Headless in dust the awe of nations lies; Jove's thunder crumbles in his mouldering hand, And mute as sepulchres the hymnless temples stand. splendour of art and nature, and a heart which is capable of being roused by the trumpet-note of passion. He has also an ear delicately susceptible to the charms of harmony; and, in a word, he possesses many of the finest elements which can enter into the composition of a poet. But he must not stop here, as he seems but too likely to do: He must not listen to the harpings of partiality and praise, until his spirit is quite asleep under their fascinating influences. He must look more abroad over the world, and still more needful, he must look deeper within himself. He must consider calmly and leisurely what literature is what has been done-what remains to be done-what can be done-and having opened some new field for himself, he must give himself like a man to its cultivation. If he proceeds, as he has hitherto been doing, he will never be any thing more than the Oxford Professor of Poetry. If he does himself justice, he may very probably, but not very easily, win to himself a lasting place among the true poets of England. thing to be respected and admired in It is no doubt a very honourable one of the first universities in the world; but Mr Milman ought to recollect, that Mr Hayley was just as much the idol of Commoners' and Fellow-commoners' worship, thirty years ago, as he himself is now. Even Lady Hervey, the clever, sensible Lady Hervey, talks, in one of her admirable letters, of meeting with a young gentleman destined to be "the Pope, or Sing to the Lord! when Time itself shall perhaps something better, of the age;" and this sort of cant rung from one side of England to the other, until Mr Hayley died, and his works followed him. Mr Milman lives in another sort of age from that in which Hayley appeared; but although we have no doubt he is a man of higher natural powers than Mr Hayley, we are quite certain, that thirty years hence he will just be as little thought of, even at Oxford, as Mr Hayley is now, unless he do really take in kindness what is meant both kindly and earnestly, and avoid coming before the public of England again, until he has something to bring with him, which What does our correspondent mean by "admirable letters ?" If he had bestowed the epithet "admirable" on the notes of Lady Hervey's editor, we should have agreed with him.-C. N. |