with his other evil advisers; if he should recover his kingdom, he must rule henceforward according to the counsel of the Pope, and correct whatever was contrary to the ecclesiastical laws. On these conditions the Pope condescended to grant absolution, with the further provision that, in case of any prevarication on the part of the King on any of these articles, the absolution was null and void, and in that case the princes of the empire were released from all their oaths, and might immediately proceed to the election of another king.

The oath of Henry was demanded to these conditions, to his appearance before the tribunal of the Pope, and to the safe-conduct of the Pope if he should be pleased to cross the Alps. But the King's oath was not deemed sufficient; who would be his compurgators? The Abbot of Clugny declined, as taking such oath was inconsistent with his monastic vows. At length the Archbishop of Bremen, the Bishops of Vercelli, Osnaburg, and Zeitz, the Marquis Azzo, and others of the princes present, ventured to swear on the holy reliques to the King's faithful fulfilment of all these hard conditions.

But even yet the unforgiving Hildebrand had not forced the King to drink the dregs of humiliation. He had degraded Henry before men, he would degrade him in the presence of God; he had exalted himself to the summit of earthly power, he would appeal to Heaven to ratify and to sanction this assumption of unapproachable superiority.

After the absolution had been granted in due form, the Pope proceeded to celebrate the awful mystery of the Eucharist. He called the King towards the altar; he lifted in his hands the consecrated host, the body of the Lord, and spoke these words: 'I have been accused by thee and by thy partisans of having usurped the Apostolic See by simoniacal practices-of having been guilty, both before and after my elevation to the Episcopate, of crimes which would disqualify me for my sacred office. I might justify myself by proof, and by the witness of those who have known me from my youth, whose suffrages have raised me to the Apostolic See. But to remove every shadow of suspicion, I appeal from human testimony to divine. Behold the Lord's body; be this the test of my innocence. May God acquit me by His judgment this day of the crimes with which I am charged; if guilty, strike me dead at once.' He then took and ate the consecrated wafer. A pause ensued; he stood unscathed in calm assurance. A sudden burst of admiration thrilled the whole congregation. When silence was restored he addressed the King: 'Do thou, my son, as I have done! The Princes of the German Empire have accused thee of crimes heinous and capital, such as in justice should exclude thee not only from the administration of public affairs, but from the communion of the Church and all intercourse with the faithful to thy dying day. They eagerly demand a solemn trial. But human decisions are liable to error; falsehood, dressed out in eloquence, enslaves the judg ment; truth, without this artificial aid, meets with contempt. As thou hast implored my protection, act according to my counsel. If thou art conscious of thy innocence, and assured that the accusations against thee are false, by this short course free the Church of God from scandal, thyself from long and doubtful trial. Take thou too the body of the Lord, and if God avouches thy innocence, thou stoppest for ever the mouths of thy accusers. I shall become at once the advocate of

thy cause, the assertor of thy guiltlessness, thy nobles will be reconciled to thee, thy kingdom restored, the fierce tumult of civil war which destroys thy empire be allayed for ever.' (From Latin Christianity.)

Titus.

Jerusalem before the Siege.

It must be-
And yet it moves me, Romans! It confounds
The counsel of my firm philosophy
That Ruin's merciless ploughshare must pass o'er
And barren salt be sown on yon proud city.

As on our olive-crowned hill we stand,
Where Kedron at our feet its scanty waters
Distils from stone to stone with gentle motion,
As through a valley sacred to sweet peace,
How boldly doth it front us! how majestically!
Like a luxurious vineyard, the hillside

Is hung with marble fabrics, line o'er line,
Terrace o'er terrace, nearer still, and nearer

To the blue heavens. Here bright and sumptuous palaces,

With cool and verdant gardens interspersed ;
Here towers of war that frown in massy strength;
While over all hangs the rich purple eve,
As conscious of its being her last farewell
Of light and glory to that fated city.
And, as our clouds of battle dust and smoke
Are melted into air, behold the Temple
In undisturbed and lone serenity,
Finding itself a solemn sanctuary

In the profound of heaven! It stands before us
A mount of snow, fretted with golden pinnacles!
The very sun, as though he worshipped there,
Lingers upon the gilded cedar roofs,
And down the long and branching porticoes,
On every flowery-sculptured capital,
Glitters the homage of his parting beams.
By Hercules! the sight might almost win
The offended majesty of Rome to mercy.

Summons of the Destroying Angel to Babylon.
The hour is come! the hour is come! With voice
Heard in thy inmost soul, I summon thee,
Cyrus, the Lord's anointed! And thou river,
That flowest exulting in thy proud approach
To Babylon, beneath whose shadowy walls,
And brazen gates, and gilded palaces,
And groves, that gleam with marble obelisks,
Thy azure bosom shall repose, with lights
Fretted and chequered like the starry heavens :
I do arrest thee in thy stately course,

By Him that poured thee from thine ancient fountain,
And sent thee forth, even at the birth of time,
One of His holy streams, to lave the mounts
Of Paradise. Thou hear'st me: thou dost check
Abrupt thy waters as the Arab chief

His headlong squadrons. Where the unobserved
Yet toiling Persian breaks the ruining mound,
I see thee gather thy tumultuous strength;
And, through the deep and roaring Naharmalcha,
Roll on as proudly conscious of fulfilling
The omnipotent command! While, far away,
The lake, that slept but now so calm, nor moved,
Save by the rippling moonshine, heaves on high
Its foaming surface like a whirlpool-gulf,
And boils and whitens with the unwonted tide.

But silent as thy billows used to flow, And terrible, the hosts of Elam move,

Winding their darksome way profound, where man
Ne'er trod, nor light e'er shone, nor air from heaven
Breathed. O ye secret and unfathomed depths,
How are ye now a smooth and royal way

For the army of God's vengeance! Fellow-slaves
And ministers of the Eternal purpose,
Not guided by the treacherous, injured sons
Of Babylon, but by my mightier arm,

Ye come, and spread your banners, and display
Your glittering arms as ye advance, all white
Beneath the admiring moon. Come on! the gates

་

Are open-not for banqueters in blood
Like you! I see on either side o'erflow

The living deluge of armed men, and cry,

Begin, begin! with fire and sword begin

The work of wrath.' Upon my shadowy wings
I pause, and float a little while, to see
Mine human instruments fulfil my task
Of final ruin. Then I mount, I fly,

And sing my proud song, as I ride the clouds,
That stars may hear, and all the hosts of worlds,
That live along the interminable space,
Take up Jehovah's everlasting triumph!

But she the while from human tenderness Estranged, and gentler feelings that light up The cheek of youth with rosy joyous smile, Like a forgotten lute, played on alone By chance-caressing airs, amid the wild Beauteously pale and sadly playful grew, A lonely child, by not one human heart Beloved, and loving none: nor strange if learned Her native fond affections to embrace Things senseless and inanimate; she loved All flowerets that with rich embroidery fair Enamel the green earth-the odorous thyme, Wild rose, and roving eglantine; nor spared To mourn their fading forms with childish tears. Gray birch and aspen light she loved, that droop Fringing the crystal stream; the sportive breeze That wantoned with her brown and glossy locks; The sunbeam chequering the fresh bank; ere dawn Wandering, and wandering still at dewy eve, By Glenderamakin's flower-empurpled marge, Derwent's blue lake, or Greta's wildering glen. Rare sound to her was human voice, scarce heard Save of her aged nurse or shepherd maid Soothing the child with simple tale or song. Hence all she knew of earthly hopes and fears, Life's sins and sorrows: better known the voice Beloved of lark from misty morning cloud Blithe carolling, and wild melodious notes Heard mingling in the summer wood, or plaint By moonlight, of the lone night-warbling bird. Nor they of love unconscious, all around Fearless, familiar they their descants sweet Tuned emulous. Her knew all living shapes That tenant wood or rock, dun roe or deer,

Sunning his dappled side, at noontide crouched,
Courting her fond caress; nor fled her gaze
The brooding dove, but murmured sounds of joy.
(From Samor.)

Apostrophe to Britain.

Land of my birth, O Britain! and my love,
Whose air I breathe, whose earth I tread, whose tongue
My song would speak, its strong and solemn tones
Most proud, if I abase not. Beauteous isle,
And plenteous! what though in thy atmosphere
Float not the taintless luxury of light,

The dazzling azure of the southern skies?
Around thee the rich orb of thy renown
Spreads stainless and unsullied by a cloud.
Though thy hills blush not with the purple vine,
And softer climes excel thee in the hue
And fragrance of thy summer fruits and flowers,
Nor flow thy rivers over golden beds;
Thou in the soul of man, thy better wealth,
Art richest nature's noblest produce thou,
The immortal mind in perfect height and strength,
Bear'st with a prodigal opulence; this thy right,
Thy privilege of climate and of soil,

Would I assert: nor, save thy fame, invoke,

Or nymph, or muse, that oft 'twas dream'd of old
By falls of waters under haunted shades,
Her ecstasy of inspiration pour'd

O'er poet's soul, and flooded all his powers

With liquid glory: so may thy renown
Burn in my heart, and give to thought and word
The aspiring and the radiant hue of fire.

(From Samer.)

Reginald Heber (1783-1826), Bishop of Calcutta, was son of the rector of Malpas in Cheshire, and half-brother of Richard Heber the famous bibliophile, whose collection numbered nearly 150,000 volumes. In 1800 he went up to Brasenose College, Oxford, and in his first year won the university prize for Latin hexameters. In 1803 he secured the Newdigate by his poem of Palestine, pronounced the best prize-poem the university had produced; parts of it were set to music by Dr Crotch. Before reciting it in the theatre of the university Heber read it to Sir Walter Scott, then on a visit to Oxford. When Scott, praising the verses on Solomon's Temple, said he had not noted that no tools were used in building it, Heber retired for a few minutes to the corner of the room, and returned with the famous lines:

No hammer fell, no ponderous axes rung;
Like some tall palm the mystic fabric sprung.
Majestic silence!

In 1805 he gained the prize for the English essay, and was elected to a fellowship at All Souls'; soon after he went abroad, travelling over Germany, Russia, and the Crimea; and on his return in 1807 he became rector of Hodnet in Shropshire. He appeared again as a poet in 1809 with Europe, or Lines on the Present War (in Spain). He discharged the duties of a parish priest with unostentatious fidelity and application,

published a volume of poems in 1812, and in 1815 was Bampton Lecturer on the Personality and Office of the Comforter. He was an occasional contributor to the Quarterly Review, and in 1822 wrote a Life of Jeremy Taylor. Contrary to the advice of friends, he accepted in 1823 the difficult post of Bishop of Calcutta ; in 1826 at Trichinopoly he died suddenly of apoplexy in his bath; but he had already had ample time to prove his enthusiasm, his energy, and his discretion and tact as administrator. The lively, witty, and lovable bishop did much to promote the use of hymns in the Church of England, which had heretofore adhered mainly to the metrical psalms, and left hymns to Methodists and Independents. With Dean Milman's help he arranged the hymns in a series adapted to the Church service of the year, and of his own hymns, which he had begun to publish in a religious journal in 1811, several are known by heart to millions of English Christians: From Greenland's icy mountains,' 'Brightest and best of the sons of the morning,' 'Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty,' 'Lord of mercy and of might,' 'By cool Siloam's shady rill,' and 'The Son of God goes forth to war.' The pathetic elegy on his child, 'Thou art gone to the grave, but we will not deplore thee,' is only less well known than Heber's hymns, which are usually much more ornate in diction than those of Watts and Cowper. His works comprised fragments of a poem on The World before the Flood, and of a masque, Gwendolen, three cantos of a Morte d'Arthur, and (included in the first collected edition of the Poetical Works, 1841, but omitted in most reprints) a 'serio-comic oriental romance' in verse-practically a pantomime-on Blue-beard, in 1902 described in the Edinburgh Review as 'the best comic poem, after the Ingoldsby Legends, ever written by a clergyman.' It opens by Fadlallah, Fatima's ambitious father, saying:

Good neighbour, be quiet! my word is a law ;

I have said that my daughter shall wed the Bashaw. And at sight of the presents Ayesha is converted to the same side, and thus persuades her sister:

Do look at the things the Bashaw has sent !
Such silks, and such kincobs, such collars of pearl !
She looks like a Peri far more than a girl,
And I, her poor bride-maid, by all am confess'd
As sweetly though not so expensively dress'd.
Come keep up your spirits! do, Fatima, do!
I don't think his whiskers so frightfully blue.

The following is one of several 'Bow-Meeting Songs,' and was 'sung at Hawarden Castle in Flintshire, the seat of Sir Stephen Glynne, Bart.':

The Bow-Meeting.

By yon castle wall, 'mid the breezes of morning,
The genius of Cambria stray'd pensive and slow ;
The oak-wreath was wither'd her tresses adorning,
And the wind through its leaves sigh'd its murmur of woe.

She gazed on her mountains with filial devotion, She gazed on her Dee as he rolled to the ocean, And, 'Cambria! poor Cambria !' she cried with emotion, 'Thou yet hast thy country, thy harp, and thy bow! 'Sweep on, thou proud stream, with thy billows all hoary; As proudly my warriors have rushed on the foe: But feeble and faint is the sound of their glory,

For time, like thy tide, has its ebb and its flow. Even now, while I watch thee, thy beauties are fading; The sands and the shallows thy course are invading; Where the sail swept the surges the sea-bird is wading; And thus hath it fared with the land of the bow! 'Smile, smile, ye dear hills, 'mid your woods and your flowers,

Whose heather lies dark in the morn's dewy glow!
A time must await you of tempests and showers,
An autumn of mist, and a winter of snow!

For me, though the whirlwind has shivered and cleft me,
Of wealth and of empire the stranger bereft me,
Yet Saxon-proud Saxon-thy fury has left me

Worth, valour, and beauty, the harp and the bow! 'Ye towers, on whose rampire, all ruined and riven, The wallflower and woodbine so lavishly blow;

I have seen when your banner waved broad to the heaven,

And kings found your faith a defence from the foe; O loyal in grief, and in danger unshaken, For ages still true, though for ages forsaken, Yet, Cambria, thy heart may to gladness awaken, Since thy monarch has smiled on the harp and the bow!'

Palestine Fallen.

Reft of thy sons, amid thy foes forlorn,
Mourn, widowed queen! forgotten Sion, mourn!
Is this thy place, sad city, this thy throne,
Where the wild desert rears its craggy stone?
While suns unblest their angry lustre fling,
And wayworn pilgrims seek the scanty spring?
Where now thy pomp, which kings with envy viewed?
Where now thy might, which all those kings subdued?
No martial myriads muster in thy gate;
No suppliant nations in thy temple wait;
No prophet-bards, the glittering courts among,
Wake the full lyre, and swell the tide of song:
But lawless Force and meagre Want are there,
And the quick-darting eye of restless Fear,
While cold Oblivion, 'mid thy ruins laid,
Folds his dank wing beneath the ivy shade.

Ganora at Carduel.

So was she pleased herself who sought to please;
Till on a day when all the court would ride
To drink in Cattraeth's woods the cooler breeze,
And rouse the dun deer from Terwathlin's side,
It chanced the queen within her bower to bide,
As one in boisterous pastime rarely seen;

Who little loved the hunter's cruel pride,
Or maddening shout that rends the forest green,
Or their poor quarry's groan the bugle notes between.
Loth was her lord to miss, that livelong day,

Her soft sweet glances and her converse sweet;
Yet cared he not to cross her purposed stay;
And forth he fared, but still with ling'ring feet

And backward look, and 'Oh, when lovers meet How bless'd,' he thought, 'the evening's tranquil hour, From care and cumbrous pomp a glad retreat!' Not since his youth first quaff'd the cup of power, Had Arthur praised before the calm sequester'd bower. And forth he fared; while from her turret high That smiling form beheld his hunter crew; Pleased she beheld, whose unacquainted eye Found in each varying scene a pleasure new. Nor yet had pomp fatigued her sated view, Nor custom pall'd the gloss of royalty.

Like some gay child, a simple bliss she drew
From every gaud of feudal pageantry,

And every broider'd garb that swept in order by.
And sooth it was a brave and antic sight,

Where plume, and crest, and tassel wildly blending, And bended bow, and javelin flashing bright,

Mark'd the gay squadron through the copse descending; The greyhound, with his silken leash contending, Wreathed the lithe neck; and, on the falconer's hand, With restless perch and pinions broad depending, Each hooded goshawk kept her eager stand,

And to the courser's tramp loud rang the hollow land. And over all, in accents sadly sweet,

The mellow bugle pour'd its plaintive tone, That echo joy'd such numbers to repeat,

Who, from dark glade or rock of pumice-stone,
Sent to the woodland nymphs a softer moan;
While listening far from forth some fallow brown,
The swinked ploughman left his work undone ;
And the glad schoolboy from the neighbouring town
Sprang o'er each prisoning rail, nor reck'd his master's
frown.

Her warm cheek pillow'd on her ivory hand,
Her long hair waving o'er the battlement,

In silent thought Ganora kept her stand,

Though feebly now the distant bugle sent

Its fading sound; and, on the brown hill's bent,
Nor horse, nor hound, nor hunter's pomp was seen.
Yet still she gazed on empty space intent,
As one who, spell-bound, on some haunted green
Beholds a faery show, the twilight elms between.
That plaintive bugle's well-remember'd tone

Could search her inmost heart with magic sway;
To her it spoke of pleasures past and gone,

And village hopes, and friends far, far away, While busy memory's scintillating play Mock'd her weak heart with visions sadly dear,

The shining lakelet, and the mountain grey : And who is he, the youth of merriest cheer,

Who waves his eagle plume and grasps his hunting spear?

As from a feverish dream of pleasant sin,

She, starting, trembled, and her mantle blue, With golden border bright, and silver pin,

Round her wet cheek and heaving bosom drew; Yet still with heavy cheer and downcast view, From room to room she wander'd to and fro,

Till chance or choice her careless glances threw Upon an iron door, whose archway low,

And valves half open flung, a gorgeous sight might show.

It was a hall of costliest garniture,

With arras hung in many a purple fold;

Whose glistening roof was part of silver pure,

And silken part, and part of twisted gold,

With arms embroider'd and achievements old; Where that rich metal caught reflected day,

As in the hours of harvest men behold
Amid their sheaves a lurking adder play,
Whose burnish'd back peeps forth amid the stubble grey.
And, in the midst, an altar richly dight

With ever-burning lamps of silver pale,
And silver cross, and chalice heavenly bright,
Before whose beam a sinful heart might quail,
And sinful eye to bear its beauty fail.

It was, I ween, that gracious implement

Of heavenly love, the three-times hallow'd Grayle
To Britain's realm awhile in mercy lent,
Till sin defiled the land, and lust incontinent.
Strange things of that time-honour'd urn were told,
For youth it wont in aged limbs renew,

And kindle life in corpses deadly cold;

Yea, palsy warmth, and fever coolness drew,
While faith knelt gazing on its heavenly hue.
For not with day's reflected beam it shone,
Nor fiery radiance of the taper's blue;
But from its hollow rim around was thrown
A soft and sunny light, eternal and its own.

And many a riven helm around was hung,

And many a shield reversed, and shiver'd spear,

And armour to the passing footsteps rung,

And crowns that paynim kings were wont to wear; Rich crowns, strange arms, but shatter'd all and sere; Lo! this the chapel of that table round,

And shrine of Arthur and his warriors dear;
Where vent'rous knights by secret oaths were bound,
And, bless'd by potent prayers, their foemen to confound.

Nor less the scene such solemn use became,
Whose every wall in freshest colours dight,
Display'd in form, in feature, and in name,

The lively deeds of many a faithful knight ;
And told of many a hardly foughten fight
Against the heathen host in gory field;

Of those who reap renown with falchion bright, Or list in war the ponderous axe to wield, Or press the courser's flank with spear and shield. (From Morte d'Arthur) Ganora is Guinevere. Carduel or Caer-Luel is Carlisle,

From Heber's Journal.

If thou wert by my side, my love,
How fast would evening fail
In green Bengala's palmy grove,
Listening the nightingale !

If thou, my love, wert by my side,
My babies at my knee,

How gaily would our pinnace glide
O'er Gunga's mimic sea!

I miss thee at the dawning gray,
When on our deck reclined,
In careless ease my limbs I lay,
And woo the cooler wind.

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream
My twilight steps I guide,

But most beneath the lamp's pale beam
I miss thee from my side.

I spread my books, my pencil try,

The lingering noon to cheer,
But miss thy kind approving eye,
Thy meek attentive ear.

But when of morn or eve the star
Beholds me on my knee,

I feel, though thou art distant far,
Thy prayers ascend for me.

Then on then on! where duty leads,
My course be onward still;
O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads,
O'er bleak Almorah's hill.

That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates,
Nor wild Malwah detain ;

For sweet the bliss us both awaits

By yonder western main.

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, Across the dark-blue sea;

But ne'er were hearts so light and gay

As then shall meet in thee!

This greeting to his wife was quoted by Thackeray with warm appreciation. Heber's wife published his Life, with a selection from his letters (2 vols. 1830), and a narrative of a journey from Calcutta to Bombay; and there is a shorter Life of him by Dr George Smith (1895).

John Keble (1792-1866), author of The Christian Year, was born at Fairford, Gloucestershire, the son of the vicar of the neighbouring parish of Coln-St-Aldwynds. At the early age of fourteen he was elected a scholar of Corpus Christi, Oxford, and having taken a double-first in classics and mathematics, was in 1811 elected to a fellowship at Oriel. He was for some years tutor and examiner at Oxford, but afterwards lived with his father, and assisted him as curate. The publication of The Christian Year (1827), and the marvellous success of the work, brought its author prominently before the public, and in 1833 he was appointed Professor of Poetry at Oxford. About the same time the Tractarian movement began, taking its first impulse from a sermon on national apostasy preached by Keble on the 14th July. Newman became leader of the party, and after he had gone over to the Church of Rome, Keble and Pusey were chief advisers and counsellors. Keble wrote some of the more important Tracts, inculcating 'deep submission to authority, implicit reverence for Catholic tradition, firm belief in the divine prerogatives of the priesthood, the real nature of the sacraments, and the danger of independent speculation.' In 1835 he became vicar of Hursley near Winchester. In 1846 he published a second volume of poems, Lyra Innocentium, and he was author of a Life of Wilson, Bishop of Sodor and Man (1863), and editor of an edition of Hooker's works. Keble's poetry shows great delicacy and purity of thought and expression; prosaic sometimes and feeble, it carries with it an apostolic air and wins its way to the heart. After his death appeared a much-prized volume of Letters of Spiritual Counsel, twelve volumes of parochial

sermons, besides collections of his papers and reviews, Studia Sacra, and other papers. His theory of poetry-that it is the vehicle for the expression of the poet's deepest feelings, controlled by a certain reserve-was explained in an interesting article in the British Critic in 1838 on Lockhart's Life of Sir Walter Scott, and was worked out at length and illustrated by an examination of the chief Greek and Latin poets in his Latin lectures delivered as Professor of Poetry at Oxford (1831-41). It was only in deference to the wishes of his friends and not without much diffidence that in 1827 he published The Christian Year, or

Thoughts in Verse for the Sundays and Holydays throughout the Year. The influence of this volume was not very great at first, but its excellence was recognised by true critics; and later on, when the Tractarian movement had made its writer well known, and had stirred a deeper interest in its theme, it had an influence which can scarcely be overrated. For, though some of the poems are rather obscure and somewhat constrained and artificial, as though written to complete the series, yet the greater number have a genuine ring of inspiration in them: the love of home life and of nature, a calming, soothing sense of the everpresent love of God, a sobriety of religious feeling, and a sad undertone of grief for the moral and spiritual degeneracy of the Church are its most striking characteristics. More even than by his