V.

What though on Forest Hill the bard no more
Sings blithe Allegro and his May-day song:
In Bagley-wood the morrice-dance is o'er,

Nor May-pole rises 'mid the rustic throng;
Nor sports are seen that cheer'd our sires of yore

In many a scene those spreading meads among ; Nor Cumnor rings,-nor Woodstock bower, as when Queen Bess and Burleigh blazon'd Englishmen :

VI.

Yet o'er the scene I gaz'd with longing heed,
Nor deem'd from hill and dale the glory flown;
There, where the daisy in the emerald mead

To Chaucer's early eye disclos'd its own;
Or there where Milton's soul disown'd its creed,
And, woo'd to pleasures all too long unknown,
From e'en his darling treasons stay'd his heart,
And gave to native loves his nobler part.

VII.

Nor aught did those returning calends lack
Of England's own incomparable May;
Of pleasures rare in life's more wonted track
Of sights, like Florence, for a holiday! *
Ah me, what memories won my fancy back!
Historic thought, and fiction's sportive play,
That rose like sighs within me, as I stood,
And all around me surplice, cap, and hood.

Charles the Fifth's remark about Florence.-Walton's Angler.

VIII.

And when, at length, the flash of Morning's fires Smote Oxford's many domes and pinnacles, There was a crash from all her gilded spires

Telling the hour with sympathizing bells. And then, as if all Angels struck their lyres,— Filling the skies with music's miracles, Up to the throne, between the Cherubim, I heard ascend their Eucharistic Hymn.

IX.

And seem'd that music, in mid air, as when
The spirit is absolv'd from mortal clay,
And to the Paradise of ransom'd men,

Finds it, in angels' arms, in upward way.
I seem'd to tremble lest to earth again
I should be banish'd from that upper day,
Where rings for aye the glory excellent,
And all is harmony and ravishment.

X.

FATHER! of Thee they sung the twofold boon,
Bread for the body, for the spirit grace;
The SON they glorified, and in their tune

Thy name, consoling PARACLETE! had place.
Nor aught unsung was of that POWER TRIUNE;
Nor aught of Him, Who did His power abase,
To be of Mary's womb, the Virgin-born;
Of Calvary's Cross the victim and the scorn.

XI.

And when it ended, 'twas as visions die

Of the third Heaven, and all its seraph throng:
Or fades a rapture from the prophet's eye,

Upon the house-top listening their sweet song.
Ah! never more to hear that harmony,

Still on the breezy height I linger'd long:
While, to prolong the worship, bells out-peal'd,
And the strong tower beneath me rock'd and reel'd.*

XII.

And then, or ever their glad voice was done,
Descending to the walks, I wandered round,
Or watch'd the golden lustre of the sun

Bright'ning the belfry that gave forth the sound,
And seem'd the deep blue sky to float upon,

Solid, yet light,-and springing from the ground,
With battlements above the verdure tall;

It look'd unearthly, and aerial.

XIII.

And pleasant, as I walk'd, the Rookery-scream;
The fresh, cool, joyous, influence of the air;
And incense floating like a morning dream,
Of fragrant sweetbriar lurking everywhere.

But thoughts of pleasant men did sweeter seem
As in their very footsteps I did fare;

And walk'd with Addison, or talk'd with Horne,
In their old haunts that memorable morn.

*The massive masonry vibrates and trembles so as to affect many persons as with sea-sickness.

XIV.

Ah! ye that linger where so soon I pass'd,

My friends of Magdalen, and thou Reverend Form! Of olden worth the lonely leaf and last,*

Who gavest my bended head a blessing warm;

If on this votive page a glance ye cast,

Remember one, escaped th' Atlantic storm,

Who found adventure's rich reward that day

When, on your tower, he welcom'd England's May.

* Dr. Routh, president of Magdalen, then in his 100th year, and the 60th of his presidency.

Whefrack

(AUTHOR OF "JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.")

PHILIP MY KING.

"Who bears upon his baby brow the round and top of sovereignty."

Look at me with thy large brown eyes,
Philip my king,

Round whom the enshadowing purple lies

Of babyhood's royal dignities:

Lay on my neck thy tiny hand

With love's invisible sceptre laden;

I am thine Esther to command

Till thou shalt find a queen-handmaiden,
Philip my king.

O the day thou goest a-wooing,
Philip my king!

When those beautiful lips are suing,
And some gentle heart's bars undoing,
Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there
Sittest love-glorified. Rule kindly,
Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair,

For we that love, ah! we love so blindly,
Philip my king.

Up from thy sweet mouth,-up to thy brow,
Philip my king!

The spirit that there lies sleeping now