"Tis a low chant, according well
With the soft solitary knell,

As homeward from some grave beloved we turn,
Or by some holy death-bed dear,

Most welcome to the chastened ear

Of her whom Heaven is teaching now to mourn.

O cheerful tender strain! the heart
That duly bears with you its part,
Singing so thankful to the dreary blast,
Though gone and spent its joyous prime,
And on the world's autumnal time,
"Mid withered hues and sere, its lot be cast:

That is the heart for thoughtful seer,
Watching, in trauce nor dark nor clear."
The appalling Future as it nearer draws:
His spirit calmed the storm to meet,
Feeling the rock beneath his feet,

And tracing through the cloud th' eternal Cause.

That is the heart for watchman true
Waiting to see what GOD will do,

As o'er the Church the gathering twilight falls:
No more he strains his wistful eye,

If chance the golden hours be nigh,

By youthful Hope seen beaming round her walls.

Forced from his showy paradise,

His thoughts to Heaven the steadier rise;

There seek his answer when the world reproves:
Contented in his darkling round,

If only he be faithful found,

When from the east th' eternal morning moves.

The REV. JOHN KEBLE (1792-1866), author of 'The Christian Year,' was the son of a country clergyman, vicar of Coln-St-Aldwinds, Gloucestershire. At the early age of fifteen he was elected a scholar of Corpus Christi, Oxford, and having distinguished himself both 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,' 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, having originated in a sermon on national apostacy, preached by Keble in 1833; Newman became leader of the party, and after he had gone over to the Church of Rome, Keble was chief adviser and counsellor. He also wrote some of the more important Tracts, inculcating, as has been said, 'deep submission to authority, implicit reverence for Catholic tradi tion, firm belief in the divine prerogatives of the priesthood, the real nature of the sacraments, and the danger of independent speculation.' Such principles, fettering the understanding, are never likely

It shall come to pass in that day, that the light shall not be clear, nor dark.-Zecha. riah, xiv. 6.

to be popular, but they were held by Keble with saint-like sincerity and simplicity of character. In 1835, the poetical divine 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,' and editor of an edition of 'Hooker's Works.' The poetry of Keble is characterized by great delicacy and purity both of thought and expression. It is occasionally prosaic and feeble, but always wears a sort of apostolic air, and wins its way to the heart.

NOEL THOMAS CARRINGTON,

A Devonshire poet, MR. CARRINGTON (1777-1830), has celebrated some of the scenery and traditions of his native district in pleasing His works have been collected into two volumes, and consist of 'The Banks of Tamar,' 1820; 'Dartmoor' (his best poem), 1826; 'My Native Village;' and miscellaneous pieces.

verse.

The Pixies of Devon.

The age of pixies, like that of chivalry, is gone. There is, perhaps, at present, scarcely a house which they are reputed to visit. Even the fields and lanes which they formerly frequented seem to be nearly forsaken. Their music is rarely heard; and they appear to have forgotten to attend their ancient midnight dance.-DREW'S Cornwall.

They are flown.

Beautiful fictions of our father's, wove

In Superstition's web when Time was young,
And fondly loved and cherished: they are flown
Before the wand of Science! Hills and vales,
Mountains and moors of Devon, ye have lost
The enchantments, the delights, the visions all,
The elfin visions that so blessed the sight
In the old days romantic. Nought is heard,
Now, in the leafy word, but earthly strains-
Voices, yet sweet, of breeze, and bird, and brook,
And water-fall; the day is silent else.

And night is strangely inute! the hymnings high-
The immortal music, men of ancient times

Heard ravished oft, are flown! Oh, ye have lost,

Mountains and moors, and meads, the radiant throngs

That dwelt in your green solitudes, and filled
The air, the fields, with beauty and with joy

Intense; with a rich mystery that awed

The mind, and flung around a thousand hearths
Divinest tales, that through the enchanted year
Found passionate listeners!

The very streams

Brightened with visitings of these so sweet
Ethereal creatures! They were seen to rise

From the charmed waters, which still brighter grew

As the pomp passed to land, until the eye

Scarce bore the unearthly glory. Where they tred,
Young flowers, but not of this world's growth, arose,

And fragrance, as of amaranthine bowers,

Floated upon the breeze. And mortal eyes
Looked on their revels all the luscious night;

And, unreproved, upon their ravishing forms
Gazed wistfully, as in the dance they moved,
Voluptuous to the thrilling touch of harp
Elysian!

And by gifted eyes were seen
Wonders-in the still air; and beings bright
And beautiful, more beautiful than throng
Fancy's ecstatic regious, peopled now
The sunbeam, and now rode upon the gale
Of the sweet summer noon. Anon they touched
The earth's delighted bosom, and the glades
Seemed greener, fairer-and the enraptured woods
Gave a glad leafy murmur-and the fills
Leaped in the ray for joy; and all the birds
Threw into the intoxicating air their songs,
All soul. The very archings of the grove,
Clad in cathedral gloom from age to age,

Lightened with living splendours; and the flowers,
Tinged with new hues and lovelier, upsprung
By millions in the grass, that rustled now
To gales of Araby!

The seasons came

In bloom or blight, in glory or in shade;

The shower or sunbeam fell or glanced as pleased
These potent elves. They steered the giant cloud
Through heaven at will, and with the meteor flash
Came down in death or sport; ay, when the storm
Shook the old woods, they rode, on rainbow wings,
The tempest; and, anon, they reined its rage
In its fierce mid career. But ye have flown,
Beautiful fictions of our fathers! flown

Before the wind of Science, and the hearths
Of Devon, as lags the disenchanted year,
Are passionless and silent!

Some poet-translators of this period merit honourable mention.

ARCHDEACON WRANGHAM.

The REV. FRANCIS WRANGHAM (1769-1843), rector of Hunmanby, Yorkshire, and archdeacon of Chester, in 1795 wrote a prize poem on the Restoration of the Jews,' and translations in verse. He was the author of four Seaton prize-poems on sacred subjects, several sermons, an edition of Langhorne's Plutarch, and dissertations on the British empire in the East, on the translation of the Scriptures into the oriental languages, &c. His occasional translations from the Greek and Latin, and his macaronic verses, or sportive classical effusions among his friends, were marked by fine taste and felicitous adaptation. He continued his favourite studies to the close of his long life, and was the ornament and delight of the society in which he moved.

HENRY FRANCIS CARY.

The REV. HENRY FRANCIS CARY (1772-1844), by his translation of Dante, has earned a high and lasting reputation. He was early distinguished as a classical scholar at Christ's Church, Oxford, and was familiar with almost the whole range of Italian, French, and English

literature. In 1805 he published the 'Inferno' of Dante in blank verse, and an entire translation of the Divina Commedia,' in the same measure, in 1814. He afterwards translated the Birds' of Aristophanes, and the 'Odes' of Pindar, and wrote short memoirs in continuation of Johnson's Lives of the Poets,' which, with lives of the early French poets, appeared anonymously in the 'London Magazine.' For some years Mr. Cary held the office of assistant-librarian in the British Museum, and enjoyed a pension of £200 per annum. A Memoir of this amiable scholar was written by his son, the Rev. H. Cary, and published in 1847. First brought into notice by the prompt and strenuous exertions of Coleridge, Mr. Cary's version of the Florentine poet passed through four editions during the life of the translator. We subjoin a specimen.

Francesca of Rimini.

In the second circle of hell, Dante, in his vision,' witnesses the punishment of carnal sinners, who are tossed about ceaselessly in the dark air by furious winds. Amongst these he meets with Francesca of Rimini, who, with her lover Paolo, was put to death. The father of the unfortunate lady was the friend and protector of Dante.

I began: Bard! willingly

I would address those two together coming.
Which seem so light before the wind.' He thus:
Note thou, when nearer they to us approach,
Then by that love which carries them along,
Entreat; and they will come.' Soon as the wind
Swayed them toward us, I thus framed my speech:
O wearied spirits! come and hold discourse
With us, if by none else restrained.' As doves,
By fond desire invited, on wide wings

And firm, to their sweet nest returning home,

Cleave the air, wafted by their will along;

Thus issued, from that troop where Dido ranks,
They, through the ill air speeding, with such force
My cry prevailed, by strong affection urged.

O gracious creature, and benign! who goest
Visiting, through this element obscure,
Us, who the world with bloody stain imbrued;
If, for a friend, the King of all we owned,
Our prayer to him should for thy peace arise,
Since thou hast pity on our evil plight.
Of whatsoe'er to hear or to discourse
It pleases thee, that will we hear, of that
Freely with thee discourse, while e'er the wind,
As now, is mute. The land that gave me birth,
Is situate on the coast, where Po descends
To rest in ocean with his sequent streams.

Love, that in gentle heart is quickly learnt,
Entangled him by that fair form, from me
Ta'en in such cruel sort, as grieves me still:
Love, that denial takes from none beloved,
Caught me with pleasing him so passing well,
That, as thou see'st he yet deserts me not.
Love brought us to one death: Caina (1) waits
The soul who split our life.' Such were their words;
At hearing which downward I bent my looks,

1 The place to which murderers are doomed.

And held them there so long, that the bard cried:
What art thou pondering ?' I, in answer, thus:
Alas! by what sweet thoughts, what fond desire,
Must they at length to that ill pass have reached P
Then turning, I to them my speech addressed,
And thus began: Francesca! your sad fate,
Even to tears, my gr ef and pity moves.
But tell me; in the time of your sweet sighs,
By what and how Love granted, that ye knew
Your yet uncertain wishes.' She replied:
'No greater grief than to remember days
Of joy, when misery is at hand! T at kens
Thy learned instructor. Yet so eagerly
If thou art bent to know the primal root,
From whence our love gat being, I will do
As one who weeps and tells his tale. One day,
For our delight, we read of Lancelot, (1)
How him love thralled. Alone we were, and no
Suspicion near us. Ofttimes by that reading
Our eyes were drawn together, and the hue
Fled from our aitered cheek. But at one point
Alone we fell. When of that smile we read,
The wished smile, so rapturously kissed
By one so deep in love, then he, who ne'er
From me shall separate, at once my lips
All trembling kissed. The book and writer both
Were love's purveyors.
In its leaves that day
We read no more.' (2) While thus one spirit spale,
The other wailed so sorely that, heart-struck,
I through compassion fainting, seemed not far
From death; and like a corse fell to the ground.

Ugolini and his Sons in the Tower of Famine.

During the contests between the Guelph and the Ghibellines, in 1289, Count Ugolini with two of his sons and two grandsons, were confined by Archbishop Ruggieri in a tower; the tower was locked, and the key thrown into the Arno, and all food was withheld from them. In a few days. they died of hunger. Dante describes the future punishment of Ugolini and the cardinal as being peut in one hollow of the ice.' The awful deaths in the tower are thus related by the ghost of the

count.

A small grate

Within that mew, which for my sake the name

Of famine bears, where others yet must pine,
Already through its opening several moons
Had shewn me, when I slept the evil sleep

That from the future tore the curtain off.

The one, methought, as master of the sport,
Rode forth to chase the gaunt wolf and his whelps,
Unto the mountain which forbids the sight
Of Lucca to the Pisans. With lean brachs,
Inquisitive and keen, before him ranged
Lanfranchi with Sismondi and Gnalaudi.
After short course the father and the sons

Seemed tired and lagging, and methought I saw
The sharp tusks gore their sides. When I awoke,

1 One of the knights of the Round Table, and the lover of Ginevra, or Guinever, celbrated in romance.

2 A fine representation of this scene in marble formed part of the Manchester Exhibi. tion of 1857. It was from the collection of the Right Hon. W. E. Gladstone, and was ex ecuted by Mr. A. Munro, sculptor, a young artist cut off prematurely by death in 1871.