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But the Lord from out his cloud,
The Lord look'd down upon the proud;
And the host drave heavily
Down the deep bosom of the sea.

With a quick and sudden swell
Prone the liquid ramparts fell;
Over horse, and over car,
Over every man of war,
Over Pharaoh's crown of gold
The loud thundering billows roll’d.
As the level waters spread
Down they sank, they sank like lead,
Down without a cry or groan.
And the morning sun, that shone
On myriads of bright-armed men,
Its meridian radiance then
Cast on a wide sea, heaving as of yore,
Against a silent, solitary shore.



Bnothen, thou hast gone before us,
And thy saintly soul is flown
Where tears are wiped from every eye,
And sorrow is unknown;
From the burden of the flesh,
And from care and fear released,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

The toilsome way thou'st travell'd o'er,
And borne the heavy load,
But Christ hath taught thy languid feet
To reach his blest abode.
Thou'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus
Upon his Father's breast,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

Sin can never taint thee now,
Nor doubt thy faith assail,
Northy meek trust in Jesus Christ
And the Holy Spirit fail.
And there thou 'rt sure to meet the good,
Whom on earth thou lovedst best,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

“Earth to earth,” and “dust to dust,”
The solemn priest hath said,
So we lay the turf above thee now,
And we seal thy narrow bed:
But thy spirit, brother, soars away
Among the faithful blest,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

And when the Lord shall summon us,
Whon thou hast left behind,
May we, untainted by the world,
As sure a welcome find ;
May each, like thee, depart in peace,
To be a glorious guest,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.


Fazio. Dost thou know, Bianca, Our neighbour, old Bartolo'

Bianca. O yes, yes— That yellow wretch, that looks as he were stain'd With watching his own gold; every one knows him, Enough to loathe him. Not a friend hath he, Nor kindred, nor familiar; not a slave, Not a lean serving wench; nothing e'er enter'd But his spare self within his jealous doors, Except a wandering rat; and that, they say, Was famine-struck, and died there. What of him!

Fazio. Yet he, Bianca, he is of our rich ones. There's not a galliot on the sea but bears A venture of Bartolo's; not an acre, Nay, not a villa of our proudest princes, But he hath cramp'd it with a mortgage; he, He only stocks our prisons with his debtors. I saw him creeping home last night; he shudder'd As he unlock'd his door, and look'd around, As if he thought that very breath of wind Were some keen thief; and when he lock'd him in, I heard the grating key turn twenty times, To try if all were safe. I look'd again From our high window by mere chance, and saw The motion of his scanty, moping lantern, And, where his wind-rent lattice was ill stuff'd With tatter'd remnants of a money-bag, Through cobwebs and thick dust I spied his face, Like some dry, wither-honed anatomy, Through a huge chest-lid, jealously and scantily Uplifted, peering upon coin and jewels, Ingots and wedges, and broad bars of gold, Upon whose lustre the wan light shone muddily, As though the New World had outrun the Spaniard, And emptied all its mines in that coarse hovel. His ferret eyes gloated as wanton o'er them As a gross satyr on a sleeping nymph; And then, as he heard something like a sound, He clapp'd the lid to, and blew out the lantern; But I, Bianca, hurried to thy arms, And thank'd my God that I had braver riches.



—I hear abroad The exultation of unfetter'd earth !— From east to west they lift their trampled necks, The indignant nations: earth breaks out in scorn; The valleys dance and sing; the mountains shake Their cedar-crownéd tops! The strangers crowd To gaze upon the howling wilderness, Where stood the Queen of Nations. Lo! even now, Lazy Euphrates rolls his sullen waves [reeds. Through wastes, and but reflects his own thick I hear the bitterns shriek, the dragons cry; I see the shadow of the midnight owl Gliding where now are laughter-echoing palaces! O'er the vast plain I see the mighty tombs Of kings, in sad and broken whiteness gleam Beneath the o'ergrown cypress—but no tomb Bears record. Babylon, of thy last lord: Even monuments are silent of Belshazzar!

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I have been able to learn scarcely anything of the history of Mr. Keble. He was educated at Oxford, entered holy orders, and was for some time pastor of a rural congregation, to whose spiritual interests he devoted himself with untiring ardour and affection. He was subsequently elected Professor of Poetry in the University of Oxford, and he has been distinguished as one of those eminent scholars and divines, among whom are NewMAN, Hook and Pusey, who have since shaken the religious world with some of the most ingenious and able theological discussions of modern times, in the Oxford Tracts.

Mr. KEBLE is known as a poet chiefly through The Christian Year, which was first published in 1827. It has passed through more than thirty editions in England, and has been several times reprinted in this country. The American impressions contain a preface and other valuable additions by the author's friend, the Rt. Rev. Dr. DoANE, Bishop of the Episcopal church in New Jersey. Beside this, he has written The Child's Christian Year, and some of the finest pieces in the Lyra Apostolica, republished last summer in New York. I believe Mr. Keble is now about fifty years of age.


Aw Akr—again the Gospel-trump is blown—
From year to year it swells with louder tone;
From year to year the signs of wrath
Are gathering round the Judge's path:
Strange words fulfill'd, and mighty works achieved,
And truth in all the world both hated and believed.

Awake! why linger in the gorgeous town,
Sworn liegemen of the Cross and thorny crown 1
Up, from your beds of sloth, for shame,
Speed to the eastern mount like flame,
Nor wonder, should ye find your king in tears,
E’en with the loud Hosanna ringing in his ears.

Alas! no need to rouse them : long ago
They are gone forth to swell Messiah's show;
With glittering robes and garlands sweet
They strew the ground beneath his feet:
All but your hearts are there—O doom'd to prove
The arrows wing d in heaven for faith that will not
love .

Meanwhile He paces through the adoring crowd,
Calm as the march of some majestic cloud,
That o'er wild scenes of ocean-war
Holds its course in heaven afar :
Even so, heart-searching Lord, as years roll on,
Thou keepest silent watch from thy triumphal

Even so, the world is thronging round to gaze
On the dread vision of the latter days,
Constrain'd to own Thee, but in heart
Prepared to take Barabbas' part:
“Hosanna” now, to-morrow “Crucify,”
The changeful burden still of their rude lawless cry.

Yet, in that throng of selfish hearts untrue, Thy sad eye rests upon thy faithful few ;

Children and childlike souls are there,

Blind Bartimeus' humble prayer, And Lazarus waken'd from his four days' sleep, Enduring life again, that Passover to keep.

And fast beside the olive-border'd way [stay,
Stands the bless'd home, where Jesus deign'd to
And peaceful home, to Zeal sincere
The heavenly Contemplation dear,
Where Martha loved to wait with reverence meet,
And wiser Mary linger'd at thy sacred feet.

Still, through decaying ages as they glide,
Thou lovest thy chosen remnant to divide;
Sprinkled along the waste of years,
Full many a soft green isle appears:
Pause where we may upon the desert road,
Some shelter is in sight, some sacred, safe abode.

When withering blasts of error swept the sky,"
And Love's last flower seem'd sain to droop and die,
How sweet, how lone, the ray benign,
On shelter'd nooks of Palestine !
Then to his early home did Love repair, [air.
And cheer'd his sickening heart with his own native

Years roll away : again the tide of crime
Has swept thy footsteps from the favour'd clime.
Where shall the holy Cross find rest ?
On a crown'd monarch's mailed breast:
Like some bright angel o'er the darkling scene,
Through court and camp he holds his heavenward
course Serene.

A fouler vision yet; an age of light,
Light without love, glares on the aching sight:
O who can tell how calm and sweet,
Meek Walton shows thy green retreat,
When wearied with the tale thy times disclose,
The eye first finds thee out in thy secure repose?

* Arianism in the fourth century. + St. Louis in the thirteenth century.



Sweet nurslings of the vernal skies,
Bathed in soft airs, and fed with dew,
What more than magic in you lies,
To fill the heart's fond view
In childhood's sports, companions gay,
In sorrow, on life's downward way,
How soothing ! in our last decay
Memorials prompt and true.

Relics ye are of Eden's bowers,
As pure, as fragrant, and as fair,
As when ye crown'd the sunshine hours
Of happy wanderers there.
Fall'n all beside—the world of life,
How is it stain'd with fear and strife'
In Reason's world what storms are rife,
What passions range and glare l

But cheerful and unchanged the while
Your first and perfect form ye show,
The same that won Eve's matron smile
In the world's opening glow.
The stars of heaven a course are taught
Too high above our human thought;-
Ye may be found if ye are sought,
And as we gaze, we know.

Ye dwell beside our paths and homes,
Our paths of sin, our homes of sorrow,
And guilty man, where'er he roams,
Your innocent mirth may borrow.
The birds of air before us fleet,
They cannot brook our shame to meet—
But we may taste your solace sweet
And come again to-morrow.

Ye fearless in your nests abide—
Nor may we scorn, too proudly wise,
Your silent lessons, undescried
By all but lowly eyes:
For ye could draw the admiring gaze
Of Him who worlds and hearts surveys;
Your order wild, your fragrant maze,
He taught us how to prize.

Ye felt your Maker's smile that hour,
As when He paused and own'd you good;
His blessing on earth's primal bower,
Ye felt it all renew’d.
What care ye now, if winter's storm
Sweep ruthless o'er each silken form 1
Christ's blessing at your heart is warm,
Ye fear no vexing mood.

Alas! of thousand bosoms kind,
That daily court you and caress,

How few the happy secret find
Of your calm loveliness!

“Live for to-day ! to-morrow's light

To-morrow's cares shall bring to sight,

Go sleep like closing flowers at night, And heaven thy morn will bless.”


Lessons sweet of spring returning,
Welcome to the thoughtful heart!
May I call ye sense or learning,
Instinct pure, or heaven-taught art?
Be your title what it may,
Sweet and lengthening April day,
While with you the soul is free,
Ranging wild o'er hill and lea.

Soft as Memnon's harp at morning,
To the inward ear devout,
Touch'd by light, with heavenly warning
Your transporting chords ring out.
Every leaf in every nook,
Every wave in every brook,
Chanting with a solemn voice,
Minds us of our better choice.

Needs no show of mountain hoary,
Winding shore or deepening glen,
Where the landscape in its glory
Teaches truth to wandering men:
Give true hearts but earth and sky,
And some flowers to bloom and die,
Homely scenes and simple views t
Lowly thoughts may best infuse.

See the soft green willow springing
Where the waters gently pass,
Every way her free arms flinging
O'er the moss and reedy grass.
Long ere winter blasts are fled,
See her tipp'd with vernal red,
And her kindly flower display'd
Ere her leaf can cast a shade.

Though the rudest hand assail her,
Patiently she droops awhile,
But when showers and breezes hail her,
Wears again her willing smile.
Thus I learn contentment's power
From the slighted willow bower,
Ready to give thanks and live
On the least that Heaven may give.

If the quiet brooklet leaving,
Up the stony vale I wind,
Haply half in fancy grieving
For the shades I leave behind,
By the dusty wayside drear,
Nightingales with joyous cheer
Sing, my sadness to reprove,
Gladlier than in cultured grove.

Where the thickest boughs are twining

Of the greenest, darkest tree,
There they plunge, the light declining—

All may hear, but none may see.
Fearless of the passing hoof,
Hardly will they fleet aloof;
So they live in modest ways,
Trust entire, and ceaseless praise.

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