Years rolled on, and the child becomes a beautiful girl :—

To her new beauty largely given

From deeper fountains look'd and smiled;
And, like a morning dream from heaven,
The woman gleam'd within the child!

And she had reach'd a higher state,
Though infant joys about her hung;
With gaze more fix'd, a graver fate
Above her beauty hung.

And thus about her youth was spread
The shadow thrown by coming time;
The expectance deepening o'er her head,
Of Passion's sad sublime.'-p. 15.

Jane's mother, a woman of a deep and tender spirit, dies; and the Sexton grieves for her, but digs her grave. To his daughter it seemed as if the world must sink within that grave: still she has sacred duties to perform towards her aged father, and she performs them duly. One season of mournful meditation she claims for herself,--the silent hour of summer dawn,-during which she tends the flowers on her parent's grave, or sits beside, with the Bible resting upon it. Whilst so engaged one morning, she hears a voice beyond the old yew-tree in the churchyard, half in sobs of grief, and half in prayer: it is that of a youth kneeling by his widowed mother's grave :—

'He, too, was young, and sad, and pale;

Two mourning, youthful hearts were they;
They had the same familiar tale,—
Man's tale of every day.

And each upon the other gazed,

With eyes from sorrow cold and slow;

They knew not why, but felt amazed

That each was not alone in woe.'

They meet again, and love, though sickness has already marked Henry, the orphan youth, for her own:

(

"Twere worth a thoughtful wish to see
A loving pair so calm, so young,
'Mid graves beside the churchyard tree,
While summer's light around them clung.
He seem'd a more than common man,
Whom children pass'd not heedless by,
With graven brow of shapely span,
And sudden-moving, pensive eye.

Retired

Retired and staid was Henry's look,
And shrank from men's tumultuous ways;
And on the earth, as on a book,

He oft would bend his gaze.

But then at sight of bird or flower,
Or beam that set the clouds in flame,
Or aught that told of joy or power,
Upon the man his genius came.

Most flash'd his light when near him shone
That face of youth, those eyes of blue,

Whose looks re-echoing every tone,

Paid heartfelt words with smiles as true.'-p. 34.

The thrifty Sexton at first opposes the lovers' union, except upon the condition of Henry's becoming his assistant in manual labour, but at last gives a general consent, if the parties should remain of the same mind when the spring returned. But ere the winter is past, Jane has watched by the death-bed of her promised husband, and she herself has taken a death-chill. When spring returns, the aged Sexton is left alone on the earth.

Upon the spring-clad fields and woods,

The churchyard graves and tall church-tower,

The warm, pure daylight softly broods,
And fills with life the morning hour.
The vast sepulchral yew-tree waves,
And feels the sunshine cheer the shade,
And e'en the low and grassy graves
Appear in living slumber laid.
The only sad and helpless thing,
That May-day makes not less forlorn,
Is that old man, to whom the spring
Is dead, and dead the breezy morn.
These live not now, for all is dead
With her that lies below the sod;
His daughter from his life is fled,
And leaves but dust by spectres trod.
The smooth, sweet air is blowing round,
It is a spirit of hope to all;

It whispers o'er the wakening ground,
And countless daisies hear the call.
It mounts and sings away to heaven,
And 'mid each light and lovely cloud;
To it the lark's loud joys are given,
And young leaves answer it aloud.
It skims above the flat green meadow,
And darkening sweeps the shining stream;
Along the hill it drives the shadow,
And sports and warms in the skyey beam.

But

But round that hoar and haggard man
It cannot shed a glimpse of gladness;
He wastes beneath a separate ban,
An exile to a world of gladness.
Upon a bench before his door
He sits, with weak and staring eyes,
He sits and looks, for straight before
The grave that holds his daughter lies.
If any come with him to speak,

In dull harsh words he bids them go;
For this strong earth he seems too weak,
For breathing life too cramped and slow:-
A sun-dial pillar left alone,

On which no dial meets the eye;

A black mill-wheel with grass o'ergrown,
That hears no water trickle by

:

Dark palsied mass of severed rock,

Deaf, blind, and sere to sun and rain;

A shattered grave-stone's time-worn block

That only shows the name of Jane.'-p. 99.

We have not noticed parts of this poem, in which the Author shows himself master of a rich vein of classical fancy, as in the fourth and eighth parts; but we read them and the other pieces in the volume of the same kind with pleasure. Amongst these we distinguish Aphrodite,' and 'Dædalus,' although we are not sure that we exactly understand the mythus of this latter poem. The last in the volume, Joan d'Arc,' is a very highly-finished composition, and may be regarded as one of the most successful specimens of versification that have appeared within recent years. We feel confident that, notwithstanding the length of our preceding extracts, the closing apostrophe to the martyred heroine will be read with more or less of the admiration which it excited in us:

'Faithful maiden, gentle heart!

Thus our thoughts of grief depart;
Vanishes the place of death;
Sounds no more thy painful breath;
O'er the unbloody stream of Meuse
Melt the silent evening dews,
And along the banks of Loire
Rides no more the armed destroyer.
But thy native waters flow
Through a land unnamed below,
And thy woods their verdure wave
In the vale beyond the grave,
Where the deep-dyed western sky
Looks on all with tranquil eye,

And

And on distant dateless hills

Each high peak with radiance fills.
There amid the oak-tree shadow,

And o'er all the beech-crowned meadow,
Those for whom the earth must mourn
In their peaceful joy sojourn.
Joined with Fame's selected few,
Those whom Rumour never knew,
But no less to Conscience true:
Each grave prophet soul sublime,
Pyramids of elder Time;

Bards with hidden fire possess'd,
Flashing from a woe-worn breast;
Builders of man's better lot,

Whom their hour acknowledged not,
Now with strength appeased and pure,
Feel whate'er they loved is sure.
These and such as these the train,
Sanctified by former pain,

'Mid those softest yellow rays
Sphered afar from mortal praise;
Peasant, matron, monarch, child,
Saint undaunted, hero mild,

Sage whom pride has ne'er beguiled:
And with them the Champion-maid
Dwells in that serenest glade;
Danger, toil, and grief no more
Touch her life's unearthly shore;
Gentle sounds that will not cease,
Breathe but peace, and ever peace;
While above the immortal trees
Michael and his host she sees
Clad in diamond panoplies;
And more near, in tenderer light,
Honored Catherine, Margaret bright,
Agnes, whom her loosened hair
Robes like woven amber air-
Sisters of her childhood come

To her last eternal home.'-p. 245.

We have no wish, in calling attention to a volume of such general excellence as this of Mr. Sterling's, to notice petty defects. We would only venture to caution the Author against an occasional tendency to exaggeration of tone and sentiment, fatally injurious to the lasting influence of poetry. We just refer, as one instance, to the poem entitled Mirabeau,' which appears to us written rather too soon after the study of Mr. Carlyle. It seems to us, also, that such expressions as

VOL. LXVI. NO. CXXXI.

6

and

"Thou sky, whose dome, above them bent,
Expands the cloudless God to sight'-

'Thou pervading Soul of All' (p. 32)—

and others similar, in different parts of this volume, are neither accurate nor safe, and, literally taken, import or insinuate a doctrine equally remote, we are confident, from Mr. Sterling's philosophy and his religion. We trust, however, that these poems will be read as much as they seem to us justly to deserve; and that their author will in due time, and under proper conditions, be able to present to the world other and still maturer fruits of his genius.

ART. VI.-1. An Examination of the new Form of the Statutes, Titt. IV. V., with Hints for establishing a System of Professorial Teaching. By Robert Hussey, B.D., Censor of Christ Church. Oxford. 1839.

2. Hints on the Formation of a Plan for the safe and effectual Revival of the Professorial System in Oxford. Addressed to the Rev. the Warden of New College by a Resident Member of Convocation. Oxford. Oxford. 1839.

3. Considerations of a Plan for combining the Professorial System with the System of Public Examinations in Oxford. By a Tutor of a College. Oxford.

1839.

THE University of Oxford holds such a place in all that relates

to the Church, to education, and consequently to the wellbeing and very existence of the nation, that we cannot conceal the interest which we feel in her doings at a very important conjuncture. We are not about to plunge into the discussion of the University's theoretical constitution; this would require a book, and a heavy one; but it is not beyond the compass of a few pages to give some account of what has been done and is doing, and what is the general feeling of the parties immediately interested in reference to the continual and real improvement of the system.

The three pamphlets above named are by no means the only signs of excitement on the subject; but they are the most considerable and the most original. Mr. Hussey's is very important, from his position on such a foundation as that of Christ Church, and from the public offices in which he has lately served the University. But it has still more real claims to attention: it is the production of an experienced, able man; characterised by clearness of views, and caution in practical matters. We miss