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and the “Revolt of Islam” differs from space left in this corner of the page the Museum the composer of “Don Juan," and the stamp is affixed, covering a part of Milton's sig* Twelfth Mass.” But in the one great nature. gift of musical expression the two are won

The book is in the one place in the world derfully and essentially alike.

where it is most accessible to the scrutiny of experts, and inquiry will no doubt be made into its history. Its press mark is 238h, 35 in the King's Library. The poem, I think, speaks for itself.

I need hardly add that the following copy of it From The Examiner, 18 July. has the MS. contractions expanded and the spellAN UNPUBLISHED POEM BY MILTON.

ing modernised, but it should be stated that the

word here printed "chest," as the rhyme shows SIR. – As the discovery of an unpublished it was meant to be pronounced, was written poem by Milton is matter of interest to all read-1" cist,” and that the last three syllables of the ers, and the authenticity of such a poem cannot last line but two, though close to the edge of the be too strictly and generally tested, I shall be binding and almost effaced by the sticking to obliged if you will give publicity to the fact that them of some paper from the cover, are consissuch a poem has been found. It exists in the tent, in the few marks that are visible, with the handwriting of Milton himself, on a blank page reading here conjectured and placed within in the volume of Poems both English and Lat-| brackets. I am, Sir, your obedient servant, in, which contains his “ Comus,” “Lycidas,"

HENRY MORLEY. « L'Allegro," and " Il Penseroso." It is signed UNIVERSITY COLLEGE, LONDON, July 14. with his initials, and dated October, 1647. It was discovered in this manner: I had under

“AN EPITAPH. taken to contribute a small pleasure book of literature to a cheap popular series, and in forming

“He whom Heaven did call away such a volume from the writings of the poets Out of this Hermitage of clay who lived in the time of Charles I. and the Com

Has left some reliques in this Urn monwealth, where I did not myself possess origi As a pledge of his return. nal e litions of their works to quote from, I looked for them in the reading-room of the British Mu

Meanwhile the Muses do deplore seum. Fortunately, it did not seem to me use

The loss of this their paramour, less to read a proof containing passages from

With whom he sported ere the day Milton with help of the original edition of his Budded forth its tender ray. English and Latin poems published in 1645. And now Apollo leaves his lays There are two copies of that book in the Museum

and puts on cypress for his bays ; - one in the General Library, which would be The sacred sisters tune their quills the edition commonly consulted, and the other Only to the blubbering rills, in the noble collection formed by George III., And while his doom they think upon known as the King's Library, which was the Make their own tears their Helicon; copy I referred to. The volume contains first Leaving the two-topt Mount divine the English, then the Latin poems of that first To turn votaries to his shrine. period of Milton's life, each separately paged. The Latin poems end on page 87, leaving the Think not, reader, me less blest, reverse-of the leaf blank ; and this blank I found Sleeping in this narrow chest, covered with handwriting, which, to any one fa

Than if my ashes did lie hid miliar with the collection of facsimiles in the late Under some stately pyramid. Mr. Sotheby's Ramblings in Elucidation of the If a rich tomb makes happy, then Autograph of Milton, would, I think, convey at That Bee was happier far than men, first glance the impression it conveyed to me, Who, busy in the thymy wood, that this was the handwriting of John Milton.

Was fettered by the golden flood It proved to be a transcript of a poem in fifty Which from the Amber-weeping tree four lines, which Milton, either for himself or Distilleth down so plenteously : for some friend, had added to this volume. It is For so this little wanton elf entitled simply “ An Epitaph," and signed by Most gloriously enshrined itself. him “ J. M., Ober, 1617." He was then in A tomb whose beauty might compare his 39th year. As the page is about the size of With Cleopatra's sepulchre. a leaf of note-paper, the handwriting is small. Thirty-six lines were first written, which filled In this little bed my dust the left-hand side of the page, then a line was Incurtained round í here intrust; lightly drawn to the right of them, and, the book While my more pure and nobler part being turned sideways, the rest of the poem was Lies entomb'd in every heart. packed into three little columns, eight lines in each of the first two columns, and the other two Then pass on gently, ye that mourn, lines at the top of the third column, followed by Touch not this mine hallowed Urn; the initials and date. Upon the small blank | These Ashes which do here remain

A vital tincture still retain :

From the Atlantic Monthly. A seminal form within the deeps

Of this little chaos sleeps ;

The sun has marked me for his own;
The thread of life untwisted is
Into its first existencies ;

I'm growing browner day by day :

I cannot leave the fields alone;
Infant nature cradled here

I bring their breath away.
In its principles appear ;
This plant though entered into dust I put aside the forms of men,
In its Ashes rest it must

And shun the world's consuming care. Until sweet Psyche sball inspire

Come, green and honest hills again!
A softening and ætific fire,

For ye are free and fair.
And in her fostering arms enfold
This heavy and this earthly mould. How wonderful this pilgrimage !
Then as I am I'll be no more

On every side new worlds appear.
But bloom and blossom (as) b(efore) I weigh the wisdom of the sage,
When this cold numbness shall retreat And find it wanting here.
By a more than chymick heat.

I crave the tongues that Adam knew,
“ J. M., Ober, 1647.

To question and discourse with these,
To taunt the jay with jacket blue,

And quarrel with the bees.
To answer when the grossbeak calls

His mate; to mock the catbird's screech;
From Bentley's Miscellany. The sloven crow's, with nasal drawls,

The oriole's golden speech. THE CAPTURED CORNCRAKE.

Now through the pasture, and across A CAPTIVE bird !

The brook, while flocks of sparrows try Never a feather slightly stirr'd;

To quit the world, and wildly toss
Only the beautiful, bright, brown eyes,

Their forms against the sky.
Questioning our human sympathies,
Whether we give it life or death.

A small owl from the thistle-tops
Its bosom pants with a fluttering breath ;

Makes eyes at me, with blank distrust, Here is a coin, and there a cage

Tips off upon the air, and drops, 'Tis but a turn in a bird's life page.

Flat-footed, in the dust.

The meadow-lark lifts shoulder-high Here, children, come!

Above the sward, and, quivering Carry our prize to its cornfield home;

With broken notes of ecstacy,
Past the lawn, and across the field,

Slants forth on curvéd wing.
The further from men, the safer the shield;
Like many another, bought and sold,

The patient barn-fowls strut about,
And all for the love of the creature gold.

Intent on nothing every one. The world is fair, and free is the sky,

A tall cock hails a cock without, Open its prison-bars wide - let it fly.

A grave hen eyes the sun.

The gobbler gwells his shaggy coat, In pensive mood

Portentous of a conquest sure;
Oft have I heard its jarr in the wood,

His houris pipe their treble note,
On summer nights when the odorous firs
Whisper the heather and gorse that stirs

Round-shouldered and demure.
Languid and lazy on Cliffdom throned,

The clear-eyed cattle calmly stop
While beneath the delicious ocean has droned To munch the dry husk in the rack;
In the undertones of a lapping flow,

Or stretch their solid necks, and crop
To the dear old days of life long ago.

The fringes of the stack.

But night is coming, as I think ; Only a bird !

The moving air is growing cool ; Down, poor human heart, vainly stirred ;

I hear the hoarse frog's hollow chink
Make no moan, and arouse no strife,

Around the weedy pool.
These are the accidents pure of life.
A little time, and the Master's hand

The sun is down, the clouds are gray,
Will remove each shackle, unloose each band, The cricket lifts his trembling voice.
Cast back the veil from the darken'd eye, Come back again, 0 happy day,
Open the window, and let thee fly.

And bid my heart rejoice!

No. 1268.- September 19, 1868.

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Spectator, , . 3. OCCUPATIONS OF A RETIRED LIFE. Part XI. . . Sunday Magazine, . 4. A MODEL PATRIARCH IN ALGERIA,

Artists and Arabs, . 5. A HOUSE OF CARDS. Part IV. . .

Tinsley's Magazine, 6. GREAT SOLAR ECLIPSES, . . . . . . Cornhill Magazine, 7. LA FEMME PASSEÉ, . . . . . . . . Saturday Review, . 8. VATHEK, . . . . . . . . .

Saturday Review, . 9. SHAKESPEARE's Mad FOLK, . . . . . Spectator, 10. THE CONTINUITY OF SCRIPTURE, .

London Review, . 11. THE SUGGESTIVENESS OF LANDSCAPE, . . . . Saturday Review, . 12. Mr. EASTWICK'S VENEZUELA, . . . . . Spectator, . . 13. AMERICA, . . . . . . . . . Saturday Review, .

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Read on the hearts that love us still,

Hic jacet Joe; Hic jacet Bill.:

Atlantic Monthly. COME, dear old comrade, you and I Will steal an hour from days gone by,The shining days when life was new,

· WINIFRED. And all was bright with morning dew,

SWEET Winifred sits at the cottage door, The lusty days of long ago,

The rose and the woodbine shadow it o'er, When you were Bill and I was Joe.

And turns to the clear blue summer skies Your name may flaunt a titled trail,

The clearer blue of her soft young eyes

Turns to the balmy wind of the south
Proud as a cockerel's rainbow tail;

Her feverish, supplicating mouth,
And mine as brief appendix wear
As Tam O'Shanter's luckless mare;

To ask from Heaven and the sunny glow
To-day, old friend, remember still

The health she lost long, long ago. That I am Joe and you are Bill.

The rose on her cheeks is rose too red,

The light in her eyes is lightning sped, You've won the great world's envied prize,

And not the calm and steady ray And grand you look in people's eyes,

Of youth and strength in their opening day; With H O N and LLD

Her hands are lily-pale and thinIn big brave letters, fair to see,

You can see the blood beneath the skin; Your fist, old fellow ! off they go !

Something hath smitten her to the core, How are you, Bill? How are you, Joe?

And she wastes and dwindles evermore. You've worn the judge's ermined robe; She thinks, as she sits in the glint o' the sun, You've taught your name to half the globe; That her race is ended ere well begun, You've sung mankind a deathless strain; And turns her luminous eyes aside You've made the dead past live again:

To one who askes her to be his brideThe world may call you what it will,

Invisible to all but her, But you and I are Joe and Bill.

Her friend, her lover, her worshiper;

Who stretches forth his kindly hand, The chafing young folks stare and say,

And saith what her heart can understand. “ See those old buffers, bent and gray,They talk like fellows in their teens !

“Winifred ! Winifred ! be thou mine; Mad, poor old boys! That's what it means," –

Many may woo thee, many may pine, And shake their heads; they little know

To win from thy lips the sweet caress, The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe !

But thou canst not give it, or answer · yes.' How Bill forgets his hour of pride,

There is not one amid them all While Joe sits smiling at his side;

To whom if the prize of thyself should fall, How Joe, in spite of time's disguise,

Who would not suffer more cruel pain Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes,

Than would ever spring from thy disdain. Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fill,

Only to me canst thou be given As Joe looks fondly up at Bill.

The bridegroom sent to thee from Heaven; Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame?

Come to me! Come! Thy dower shall be A fitful tongue of leaping flame;

The wealth of immortality, A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust,

Eternal youth, perennial joy, That lifts a pinch of mortal dust;

And love that never shall change or cloy; A few swift years, and who can show

All shall be thine the hour we wed, Which dust was Bill and which was Joe?

Sweet Winifred! Be thou mine!” he said. The weary idol takes his stand,

“ Take me!” she answered, with faint, low Holds out his bruised and aching hand,

breath; While gaping thousands come and go,

“I know thee well. Thy name is Death. How vain it seems, this empty show !

I've looked on thy merciful face too long Till all at once his pulses thrill;

To think of thee as a pain or wrong. 'Tis poor old Joe's “God bless you, Bill!”

I know thou’lt keep thy promise true,

And lead me life's dark portaly through. ' And shall we breathe in happier spheres Up! up! on wings to the starry dome;

The names that pleased our mortal ears, Up! up! to heaven! my bridal home.”
In some sweet lull of harp and song
For earth-born spirits none too long,

He laid his hand on her trembling wrist,

Her beautiful, coy, cold lips he kissed,
Just whispering of the world below
Where this was Bill and that was Joe?

And took her away from sister and brother,

From sorrowing sire and weeping mother; No matter; while our bome is here

From all she loved. With a smile she went, No sounding name is half so dear;

Of peace and patience and sweet content; When fades at length our lingering day, 'Twas but life's vesture laid in the sod; Who cares what pompous tombstones say? 'Twas life itself to the throne of God!

From The Edinburgh Review. spectable names to those of Gregory of 1. Evangelia Apocrypha : adhibitis pluri

is nluri. Tours, Fulbert of Chartres, and Vincent of mis codicibus Græcis et Latinis, Beauvais, whom M. Nicolas cites as having maximam partem nunc primum con- claimed for these writings a more deferensultis, atque ineditorum.copiâ insigmi- tial consideration than had been paid them bus: edidit CONSTANTINUS TISCHEN- by authority. Doubtless, when Bishop ElDORF, Theol. et Phil. Doct., Theol. it wrot

licott wrote, he was thinking chiefly or Prof.: P. Ord. H. Lips. Lipsiæ : Isolely of the ancient Fathers, and of theo

MDCCCLIII., 2. Études sur les Évangiles Apocryphes.

|logians of the last few centuries; and within Par MICHEL NICOLĂS. Paris : 1866. these limits there is little exaggeration in 3. The Apocryphal Gospels, and other his language. Yet even in our own times

Documents relating to the History of we can point to a remarkable revival of inChrist. Translated from the origi- terest in these primæval writings, at once nals in Greek, Latin, Syriac, &c., more respectful and on the whole more reawith Notes, Scriptural References, and

sonable. Some twenty years before the Prolegomena, by B. HARRIS COWPER, Editor of the Journal of sacred Liter

Bishop wrote his essay, a striking series of ature, &c. London: 1867.

criticisms had appeared in France, which

gave rise to a considerable movement in THE curious compositions which popu- that country, not to say throughout Europe, larly bear the name of Apocryphal Gospels in favour of these remnants of early Chrisare little known in this country, even by tianity. In the Université Catholique' theologians, or known only to be abused. (the organ of M. de Montalembert's school) The very knowledge of them, where it ex- a series of lessons on the Poetry of Chrisists, is avowed with an apology. These tendom was commenced, in 1836, by MM. poor literary inamenities' (wrote Bishop El- Rio and Douhaire, which eloquently set licott twelve years ago),* these weak and forth the merits of these documents, and foolish outpourings of heresy and credulity, attracted no small amount of attention. are still destined to live and linger among They were presently followed in the same us. ..Such tenacity of existence is yet country by M. Gustave Bonnet's adnotated more noticeable, when we remember that translation of the Apocryphal Gospels; their mendacities, their absurdities, their which again, together with a large portion coarseness, the barbarities of their style, of M. Douhaire's own remarks, has been inand the inconsequences of their narratives, corporated into the · Dictionnaire des Apochave never been excused or condoned. It ryphes,' forming two volumes of M. Migne's would be hard to find any competent writer colossal Encyclopédie Théologique,' the in any age of the Church, who has been be- text-book of the French clergy. The subguiled into saying anything civil or com-ject has been further pursued in the smaller mendatory. ... The whole vocabulary of works of MM. Dulaurier and Alfred Maury, theological abhorrence, a vocabulary by no and lastly by M. Nicolas, whose very able means limited in its extent, or culpably treatise we propose to notice presently. weak in its expressions, has been expended Meanwhile the Society for the Defence of upon these unfortunate compositions indi- the Christian Religion' at the Hague, havvidually and collectively.' Perhaps this is ing offered a reward for the best essay on a little too strong a description both of the subject, the prize was gained in 1851, the Apocryphal Gospels themselves, and of by Constantine Tischendorf, a scholar althe treatment they have met with univer- ready well known for his laborious investisally in the Christian Church. The learned gations in the text of the Greek Testament, Whitaker,t writing certainly with no pre- and universally famous since then for his possession in their favour, admits that they discovery of the Sinaitic MS. To Dr. Tiswere once highly esteemed by many;'chendorf, besides his careful essay, we owe nor would it be difficult, we imagine, to one the best and most complete critical edition versed in mediæval lore to add other re- of these spurious Gospels, as well as a sim

ilar collection of the Apocryphal Acts. . Cambridge Essays, 1856. + Disputations on Scripture, 1688. And again it was the appearance of his

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