Back flew the bolt, uprose the latch,
And open swung the door,
And little mincing feet were heard
Pat, pat, along the floor.

Two hoofs upon the sanded floor,

And two upon the bed;

And they are breathing side by side,
The living and the dead.

"Now wake, now wake, thou butcher man!
What makes thy cheeks so pale?
Take hold! take hold! thou dost not fear
To clasp a spectre's tail ?"

Untwisted every winding coil;

The shuddering wretch took hold, Till like an icicle it seemed,

So tapering and so cold,

"Thou com'st with me, thou butcher man !"
He strives to loose his grasp,
But, faster than the clinging vine,
Those twining spirals clasp.

And open, open, swung the door,
And fleeter than the wind,
The shadowy spectre swept before,
The butcher trailed behind.

Fast fled the darkness of the night,
And morn rose faint and dim;

They called full loud, they knocked full long They did not waken him.

Straight, straight towards that oaken beam,
A trampled pathway ran;

A ghastly shape was swinging there,—
It was the butcher man.

A SCENE FROM THE MARTYR OF ANTIOCH.

THE VERY REV. HENRY HART MILMAN, D.D.,
DEAN OF ST. PAUL'S.

[Dr. Milman is the youngest son of the late Sir Francis Milman, Bart., physician to George III. He was born Feb. 10, 1791, and educated at Dr. Burney's, Greenwich, at Eton, and at Brasenose College, Oxford. In 1817 he took orders, and was appointed Vicar of St. Mary's, Reading. Previously to this he had written his tragedy of "Fazio," in which the celebrated Miss O'Neill sustained the rôle of the heroine at Covent-garden Theatre.

His subsequent works are "Anne Boleyn," "The Martyr of

Antioch," and "Belshazzar" (an heroic poem in twelve books), "Samor" (1818), and "The Fall of Jerusalem," a poem (1820). Dr. Milman has also contributed largely to the "Quarterly Review;" and has written in prose a "History of Latin Christianity,” a “History of the Jews," a "Life of Horace,” and other works. As a poet he takes rank with Bowles and Keble, and has made a reputation "that the world will not willingly let die." Having been some years the Rector of St. Margaret's, Westminster, he was presented with the deanery of St. Paul's in 1849.]

MARGARITA'S REVELATION TO HER FATHER (CALLIAS, PRIEST of Apollo) of HER CONVERSION TO CHRISTIANITY.

Callias. How? What? mine ears

Ring with a wild confusion of strange sounds
That have no meaning. Thou'rt not wont to mock
Thine aged father, but I think that now

Thou dost, my child.

Margarita.

In whom my soul hath hope of immortality,

Father! I mock not.

Call.

By Jesus Christ-by Him

Lightnings blast-not thee,

But those that, by their subtle incantations,

Have wrought upon thy innocent soul!

Look there!

Marg. Father, I'll follow thee where'er thou wilt:

Thou dost not mean this cruel violence

With which thou dragg'st me on.

Call.
Dost not behold him,
Thy God! thy father's God! the God of Antioch!
And feel'st thou not the cold and silent awe
That emanates from his immortal presence
O'er all the breathless temple? Dar'st thou see
The terrible brightness of the wrath that burns
On his arch'd brow? Lo, how the indignation
Swells in each strong dilated limb! his stature
Grows loftier; and the roof, the quaking pavement,
The shadowy pillars, all the temple feels

The offended God! I dare not look again-
Dar'st thou ?

Marg.

I see a silent shape of stone,

In which the majesty of human passion
Is to the life express'd. A noble image,
But wrought by mortal hands, upon a model
As mortal as themselves.

Call.

Ha! look again, then,

There in the East. Mark how the purple clouds
Throng to pavilion him: the officious winds
Pant forth to purify his azure path

From night's dun vapours and fast-scattering mists.
The glad earth wakes in adoration; all

The voices of all animate things lift up

Tumultuous orisons; the spacious world

Lives but in him, that is its life. But he,
Disdainful of the universal homage,

Holds his calm way, and vindicates for his own
Th' illimitable heavens, in solitude

Of peerless glory unapproachable.

What means thy proud undazzled look, to adore
Or mock, ungracious?

Marg.

On yon burning orb

I gaze, and say,-Thou mightiest work of Him
That launch'd thee forth, a golden-crowned bridegroom,
To hang thy everlasting nuptial lamp

In the exulting heavens. In thee the light,
Creation's eldest born, was tabernacled.

To thee was given to quicken slumbering nature,

And lead the seasons' slow vicissitude
Over the fertile breast of mother earth;
Till men began to stoop their grov'lling prayers,
From the Almighty Sire of all, to thee.
And I will add,-Thou universal emblem,
Hung in the forehead of the all-seen heavens,
Of Him, that, with the light of righteousness,
Dawn'd on our latter days; the visitant day-spring
Of the benighted world. Enduring splendour!
Giant refreshed! that ever more renew'st
Thy flaming strength; nor ever shalt thou cease
With time coeval, even till Time itself
Hath perish'd in eternity. Then thou
Shalt own, from thy apparent deity
Debased, thy mortal nature, from the sky
Withering before the all-enlightening Lamb,
Whose radiant throne shall quench all other fires.
Call. And yet she stands unblasted! In thy mercy
Thou dost remember all my faithful vows,

Hyperion! and suspend the fiery shaft

That quivers on thy string. Ah, not on her,

This innocent, wreak thy fury! I will search,

And thou wilt lend me light, although they shroud
In deepest Orcus. I will pluck them forth,

And set them up a mark for all thy wrath-
Those that beguiled to this unholy madness

My pure and blameless child. Shine forth, shine forth,
Apollo, and we'll have our full revenge!

[Exit. Marg. 'Tis over now-and oh! I bless thee, Lord,

For making me thus desolate below;

For severing one by one the ties that bind me

To this cold world-for whither can earth's outcasts
Fly but to heaven?

Yet is no way but this,
None but to steep my father's lingering days
In bitterness? Thou knowest, gracious Lord
Of mercy, how he loves me, how he loved me
From the first moment that my eyes were open'd
Upon the light of day and him. At least,

If thou must smite him, smite him in thy mercy.
He loves me as the life-blood of his heart;
His love surpasses every love but thine.

(By permission of the Author.)

INFLUENCE OF BEAUTY.

JOHN KEATS.

A THING of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darken'd ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

Nor do we merely feel these essences For one short hour; no, even as the trees