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Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part!
Nay, I have done; you get no more of me;
And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,
That thus so clearly I myself can free.
Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,
And when we meet at any time again
Be it not seen on either of our brows
That we one jot of former love retain.
Now at the last gasp of love's latest breath,
When his pulse failing Passion speechless lies,
When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
And Innocence is closing up his eyes;

Now if thou would'st, when all have given him over,
From death to life thou might'st him yet recover.

The concluding poem of this paper, although in a very different style, resembles its companions in the one grand quality of being amongst the best, if not the very best, of its class, at once a promise and a performance. That promise has been amply redeemed. A singular honour befell our English Apollo, that of being recited at the foot of the statue (then still in the Louvre), by no less a person than Mrs. Siddons herself. The grace and harmony of the verse are worthy of such a distinction.


An Oxford Prize Poem.

Heard ye the arrow hurtle in the sky?
Heard ye the dragon monster's deathful cry?
In settled majesty of fierce disdain,

Proud of his might, yet scornful of the slain,
The heavenly archer stands ;-no human birth,
No perishable denizen of earth;

Youth blooms immortal in his beardless face,
A god in strength with more than godlike grace;

All, all divine,—no struggling muscle glows,
Through heaving vein no mantling life-blood flows,
But animate with deity alone,

In deathless glory lives the breathing stone.

Bright kindling with a conqueror's stern delight,
His keen eye tracks the arrow's fateful flight;
Burns his indignant cheek with vengeful fire,
And his lip quivers with insulting ire:

Firm fixed his tread, yet light, as when on high
He walks the impalpable and pathless sky :
The rich luxuriance of his hair, confined
In graceful ringlets, wantons on the wind
That lifts in sport his mantle's drooping fold,
Proud to display that form of faultless mould.

Mighty Ephesian! with an eagle's flight

Thy proud soul mounted through the fields of light,
Viewed the bright concave of Heaven's blest abode,
And the cold marble leapt to life a God:
Contagious awe through breathless myriads ran,
And nations bowed before the work of man.
For mild he seemed as in Elysian bowers
Wasting in careless ease the joyous hours;
Haughty, as bards have sung, with princely sway
Curbing the fierce flame-breathing steeds of day;
Beauteous as vision seen in dreamy sleep
By holy maid, on Delphi's haunted steep,
Mid the dim twilight of the laurel grove,
Too fair to worship, too divine to love.

Yet on that form, in wild delirious trance,

With more than reverence gazed the Maid of France.
Day after day the love-sick dreamer stood
With him alone, nor thought it solitude;
To cherish grief, her last, her dearest care;
Her one fond hope-to perish of despair.
Oft as the shifting light her sight beguiled,
Blushing she shrunk, and thought the marble smiled;
Oft breathless listening heard, or seemed to hear—
A voice of music melt upon her ear.

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Slowly she waned, and, cold and senseless grown,
Closed her dim eyes, herself benumbed to stone.
Yet love in death a sickly strength supplied,
Once more she gazed, then feebly smiled and died.

It is remarkable that Dean Milman's professional residences have kept close to the great river of England his first curacy at Ealing, his vicarage at Reading, his Oxford professorship, his stall at Westminster, the deanery of St. Paul's. Well there are other ecclesiastical dwellings on the banks of the Thames Rochester, Fulham, Lambeth; who knows! One thing is quite certain, go where he may, he will find respect and welcome, and leave behind him admiration and regret.





FIFTY years ago, our Berkshire valleys abounded in old Catholic houses, to which tradition usually assigned subterranean communication with neighbouring nunneries, in the case of abbeys or priories, of which, so far as I know, none hath ever come to light; or, if the mansions had been secular, secret hiding-places for priests during the religious persecution (sad words to join) of the seventeenth century, especially during the times that preceded and followed Guy Fawkes's unaccomplished crime, and the frightful delusion known by the name of the Popish Plot. That tradition was right enough there, and that the oppressed Catholics did resort to every measure permitted to their weakness, for the purpose of concealing the priests to whom and to their peculiar rites and ceremonies they clung as human nature does cling to that which is unrighteously persecuted, there exists no sort of doubt.-In an old house which my own father took down belonging to that time, a small chamber was discovered, to which there was no entrance except by a trap-door

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cunningly devised in the oak flooring of a large bedchamber; and similar places of concealment, sometimes behind a panel, sometimes in a chimney, sometimes in the roof, have come to light in other manor-houses. Now they are nearly all levelled with the ground, these picturesque dwellings of our ancestors; the ancestral trees are following fast; and we who love to linger round the grey walls or to ramble amidst the mossy trunks are left to remember and to deplore.

One, however, still remains amongst us, thanks to the good taste, the, good feeling, and perhaps a little to the abundant wealth of the present proprietor; and that one is luckily the most interesting of all. I speak of Ufton Court, where Arabella Fermor, the Belinda of "The Rape of the Lock," spent her married life; where she dwelt in honour and repute, receiving in the hereditary mansion of the Perkinses the wits of that Augustan age-Pope, Steele, Arbuthnot, Bolingbroke; where she reared four goodly sons, became a widow, and was finally buried in the little village church. There her monument may still be seen amongst many others of her husband's family, and her name is still shown with laudable pride and interest in that most levelling of books, in whose pages riches and poverty, beauty and deformity, stand side by side the Parish Register.

To this old house I rarely fail to conduct such of my visitors as happen to be poets; and that one who deserves that high title accompanied me thither not very long ago will be inferred, I think, by most of those who read the verses that conclude this paper.

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