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From The Examiner, 18 July. AN UNPUBLISHED POEM BY MILTON.

SIR,As the discovery of an unpublished poem by Milton is matter of interest to all readers, and the authenticity of such a poem cannot be too strictly and generally tested, I shall be obliged if you will give publicity to the fact that such a poem has been found. It exists in the handwriting of Milton himself, on a blank page in the volume of Poems both English and Latin, which contains his " Comus," " Lycidas,'

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L'Allegro," and "Il Penseroso." It is signed with his initials, and dated October, 1647. It was discovered in this manner: I had undertaken to contribute a small pleasure book of literature to a cheap popular series, and in forming such a volume from the writings of the poets who lived in the time of Charles I. and the Commonwealth, where I did not myself possess original editions of their works to quote from, I looked for them in the reading-room of the British Museum. Fortunately, it did not seem to me useless to read a proof containing passages from Milton with help of the original edition of his English and Latin poems published in 1645. There are two copies of that book in the Museum -one in the General Library, which would be the edition commonly consulted, and the other in the noble collection formed by George III., known as the King's Library, which was the copy I referred to. The volume contains first the English, then the Latin poems of that first period of Milton's life, each separately paged. The Latin poems end on page 87, leaving the reverse of the leaf blank; and this blank I found covered with handwriting, which, to any one familiar with the collection of facsimiles in the late Mr. Sotheby's Ramblings in Elucidation of the Autograph of Milton, would, I think, convey at first glance the impression it conveyed to me, that this was the handwriting of John Milton.

It proved to be a transcript of a poem in fiftyfour lines, which Milton, either for himself or for some friend, had added to this volume. It is entitled simply "An Epitaph," and signed by him "J. M., Ober, 1647.” He was then in his 39th year. As the page is about the size of a leaf of note-paper, the handwriting is small. Thirty-six lines were first written, which filled the left-hand side of the page, then a line was lightly drawn to the right of them, and, the book being turned sideways, the rest of the poem was packed into three little columns, eight lines in each of the first two columns, and the other two lines at the top of the third column, followed by the initials and date. Upon the small blank

space left in this corner of the page the Museum stamp is affixed, covering a part of Milton's signature.

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The book is in the one place in the world 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 has the MS. contractions expanded and the spelling modernised, but it should be stated that the word here printed 'chest," as the rhyme shows it was meant to be pronounced, was written cist," and that the last three syllables of the last line but two, though close to the edge of the binding and almost effaced by the sticking to them of some paper from the cover, are consistent, in the few marks that are visible, with the reading here conjectured and placed within brackets. I am, Sir, your obedient servant,

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HENRY MORLEY. UNIVERSITY COLLEGE, LONDON, July 14.

"AN EPITAPH.

"HE whom Heaven did call away
Out of this Hermitage of clay
Has left some reliques in this Urn
As a pledge of his return.

Meanwhile the Muses do deplore
The loss of this their paramour,
With whom he sported ere the day
Budded forth its tender ray.
And now Apollo leaves his lays
And puts on cypress for his bays;
The sacred sisters tune their quills
Only to the blubbering rills,

And while his doom they think upon
Make their own tears their Helicon;
Leaving the two-topt Mount divine
To turn votaries to his shrine.

Think not, reader, me less blest,
Sleeping in this narrow chest,
Than if my ashes did lie hid
Under some stately pyramid.
If a rich tomb makes happy, then
That Bee was happier far than men,
Who, busy in the thymy wood,
Was fettered by the golden flood
Which from the Amber-weeping tree
Distilleth down so plenteously:
For so this little wanton elf
Most gloriously enshrined itself.
A tomb whose beauty might compare
With Cleopatra's sepulchre.

In this little bed my dust
Incurtained round I here intrust;
While my more pure and nobler part
Lies entomb'd in every heart.

Then pass on gently, ye that mourn, Touch not this mine hallowed Urn; These Ashes which do here remain

A vital tincture still retain :

A seminal form within the deeps
Of this little chaos sleeps;
The thread of life untwisted is
Into its first existencies;
Infant nature cradled here
In its principles appear;

This plant though entered into dust
In its Ashes rest it must

Until sweet Psyche shall inspire
A softening and ætific fire,

And in her fostering arms enfold
This heavy and this earthly mould.
Then as I am I'll be no more

But bloom and blossom (as) b(efore)
When this cold numbness shall retreat
By a more than chymick heat.

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From the Atlantic Monthly.
IN VACATION.

THE sun has marked me for his own;
I'm growing browner day by day :

I cannot leave the fields alone;
I bring their breath away.

I put aside the forms of men,

And shun the world's consuming care.
Come, green and honest hills again!
For ye are free and fair.

How wonderful this pilgrimage!
On every side new worlds appear.
I weigh the wisdom of the sage,
And find it wanting here.

I crave the tongues that Adam knew,
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;
The sloven crow's, with nasal drawls,
The oriole's golden speech.

Now through the pasture, and across
The brook, while flocks of sparrows try
To quit the world, and wildly toss
Their forms against the sky.

A small owl from the thistle-tops
Makes eyes at me, with blank distrust,
Tips off upon the air, and drops,
Flat-footed, in the dust.

The meadow-lark lifts shoulder-high
Above the sward, and, quivering
With broken notes of ecstacy,

Slants forth on curvéd wing.

The patient barn-fowls strut about,
Intent on nothing every one.
A tall cock hails a cock without,
A grave hen eyes the sun.

The gobbler swells his shaggy coat,
Portentous of a conquest sure;
His houris pipe their treble note,

Round-shouldered and demure.

The clear-eyed cattle calmly stop

To munch the dry husk in the rack; Or stretch their solid necks, and crop The fringes of the stack.

But night is coming, as I think;

The moving air is growing cool;
I hear the hoarse frog's hollow chink
Around the weedy pool.

The sun is down, the clouds are gray,
The cricket lifts his trembling voice.
Come back again, O happy day,
And bid my heart rejoice!

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GRACE OWEN'S ENGAGEMENT. Loring, Publisher, Boston.

PREPARING FOR PUBLICATION AT THIS OFFICE:

A HOUSE OF CARDS.

THE BRAMLEIGHS OF BISHOP'S FOLLY, by CHARLES LEVER.
OCCUPATIONS OF A RETIRED LIFE, by EDWARD GARRETT.
PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER, by MR. TROLLOPE.

LATELY PUBLISHED:

THE BROWNLOWS, by MRS. OLIPHANT. 38 cts.
THE TENANTS OF MALORY, by J. S. LE FANU. 50 cts.
OLD SIR DOUGLAS, by the HON. MRS. NORTON. 75 cts.
SIR BROOKE FOSSBROOKE. SECOND EDITION. 50 cts.

PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY

LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON.

TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION.

FOR EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year, free of postage. But we do not prepay postage on less than a year, nor where we have to pay commission for forwarding the money.

Price of the First Series, in Cloth, 36 volumes, 90 dollars.

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Any Volume Bound, 3 dollars; Unbound, 2 dollars. The sets, or volumes, will be sent at the expense of the publishers.

PREMIUMS FOR CLUBS.

For 5 new subscribers ($40.), a sixth copy; or a set of HORNE'S INTRODUCTION TO THE BIBLE, unabridged, in 4 large volumes, cloth, price $10; or any 5 of the back volumes of the LIVING AGE, in num bers, price $10.

BILL AND JOE.

BY O. W. HOLMES.

COME, dear old comrade, you and I
Will steal an hour from days gone by,-
The shining days when life was new,
And all was bright with morning dew,←
The lusty days of long ago,
When you were Bill and I was Joe.

Your name may flaunt a titled trail,
Proud as a cockerel's rainbow tail;
And mine as brief appendix wear
As Tam O'Shanter's luckless mare;
To-day, old friend, remember still
That I am Joe and you are Bill.

You've won the great world's envied prize,
And grand you look in people's eyes,
With H ON and L L D

In big brave letters, fair to see, -
Your fist, old fellow! off they go !
How are you, Bill? How are you, Joe?

You've worn the judge's ermined robe;
You've taught your name to half the globe;
You've sung mankind a deathless strain;
You've made the dead past live again:
The world may call you what it will,
But you and I are Joe and Bill.

The chafing young folks stare and say,
"See those old buffers, bent and gray,-
They talk like fellows in their teens!
Mad, poor old boys! That's what it means,"
And shake their heads; they little know
The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe!—

How Bill forgets his hour of pride,
While Joe sits smiling at his side;
How Joe, in spite of time's disguise,
Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes,-
Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fill,
As Joe looks fondly up at Bill.

Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame?
A fitful tongue of leaping flame;
A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust,
That lifts a pinch of mortal dust;
A few swift years, and who can show
Which dust was Bill and which was Joe?

The weary idol takes his stand,
Holds out his bruised and aching hand,
While gaping thousands come and go,-
How vain it seems, this empty show!-
Till all at once his pulses thrill; -
'Tis poor old Joe's "God bless you, Bill!"
And shall we breathe in happier spheres
The names that pleased our mortal ears,
In some sweet lull of harp and song
For earth-born spirits none too long,
Just whispering of the world below
Where this was Bill and that was Joe?
No matter; while our home is here
No sounding name is half so dear;
When fades at length our lingering day,
Who cares what pompous tombstones say?

Read on the hearts that love us still,
Hic jacet Joe; Hic jacet Bill.
Atlantic Monthly.

WINIFRED.

SWEET Winifred sits at the cottage door,
The rose and the woodbine shadow it o'er,
And turns to the clear blue suminer skies
The clearer blue of her soft young eyes-
Turns to the balmy wind of the south
Her feverish, supplicating mouth,
To ask from Heaven and the sunny glow
The health she lost long, long ago.

The rose on her cheeks is rose too red,
The light in her eyes is lightning sped,
And not the calm and steady ray

Of youth and strength in their opening day;
Her hands are lily-pale and thin-
You can see the blood beneath the skin;
Something hath smitten her to the core,
And she wastes and dwindles evermore.
She thinks, as she sits in the glint o' the sun,
That her race is ended ere well begun,
And turns her luminous eyes aside
To one who askes her to be his bride-
Invisible to all but her,

Her friend, her lover, her worshiper;
Who stretches forth his kindly hand,
And saith what her heart can understand.

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"Winifred! Winifred! be thou mine; Many may woo thee, many may pine, To win from thy lips the sweet caress, But thou canst not give it, or answer' yes.' There is not one amid them all

To whom if the prize of thyself should fall,
Who would not suffer more cruel pain
Than would ever spring from thy disdain.

Only to me canst thou be given-
The bridegroom sent to thee from Heaven;
Come to me! Come! Thy dower shall be
The wealth of immortality,

Eternal youth, perennial joy,

And love that never shall change or cloy;
All shall be thine the hour we wed,
Sweet Winifred! Be thou mine!" he said.

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"I know thee well. Thy name is Death.
I've looked on thy merciful face too long
To think of thee as a pain or wrong.
I know thou'lt keep thy promise true,
And lead me life's dark portals through.
Up! up! on wings to the starry dome;
Up! up! to heaven! my bridal home."
He laid his hand on her trembling wrist,
Her beautiful, coy, cold lips he kissed,
And took her away from sister and brother,
From sorrowing sire and weeping mother;
From all she loved. With a smile she went,
Of peace and patience and sweet content;
'Twas but life's vesture laid in the sod;
'Twas life itself to the throne of God!

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THE curious compositions which popularly bear the name of Apocryphal Gospels are little known in this country, even by theologians, or known only to be abused. The very knowledge of them, where it exists, is avowed with an apology. These poor literary inamenities' (wrote Bishop Ellicott twelve years ago),* these weak and foolish outpourings of heresy and credulity, are still destined to live and linger among us. ... Such tenacity of existence is yet more noticeable, when we remember that their mendacities, their absurdities, their coarseness, the barbarities of their style, and the inconsequences of their narratives, have never been excused or condoned. It would be hard to find any competent writer in any age of the Church, who has been beguiled into saying anything civil or commendatory. . . . The whole vocabulary of theological abhorrence, a vocabulary by no means limited in its extent, or culpably weak in its expressions, has been expended upon these unfortunate compositions individually and collectively.' Perhaps this is a little too strong a description both of the Apocryphal Gospels themselves, and of the treatment they have met with universally in the Christian Church. The learned Whitaker, writing certainly with no prepossession in their favour, admits that they were once highly esteemed by many;' nor would it be difficult, we imagine, to one versed in mediæval lore to add other re

Cambridge Essays, 1856.

↑ Disputations on Scripture, 1588.

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spectable names to those of Gregory of Tours, Fulbert of Chartres, and Vincent of Beauvais, whom M. Nicolas cites as having claimed for these writings a more deferential consideration than had been paid them by authority. Doubtless, when Bishop Ellicott wrote, he was thinking chiefly or solely of the ancient Fathers, and of theologians of the last few centuries; and within these limits there is little exaggeration in his language. Yet even in our own times we can point to a remarkable revival of interest in these primæval writings, at once more respectful and on the whole more reasonable. Some twenty years before the Bishop wrote his essay, a striking series of criticisms had appeared in France, which gave rise to a considerable movement in that country, not to say throughout Europe, in favour of these remnants of early Christianity. In the Université Catholique' (the organ of M. de Montalembert's school) a series of lessons on the Poetry of Christendom was commenced, in 1836, by MM. Rio and Douhaire, which eloquently set forth the merits of these documents, and attracted no small amount of attention. They were presently followed in the same country by M. Gustave Bonnet's annotated translation of the Apocryphal Gospels; which again, together with a large portion of M. Douhaire's own remarks, has been incorporated into the 'Dictionnaire des Apocryphes,' forming two volumes of M. Migne's colossal Encyclopédie Théologique,' the text-book of the French clergy. The subject has been further pursued in the smaller works of MM. Dulaurier and Alfred Maury, and lastly by M. Nicolas, whose very able treatise we propose to notice presently. Meanwhile the Society for the Defence of the Christian Religion' at the Hague, having offered a reward for the best essay on the subject, the prize was gained in 1851, by Constantine Tischendorf, a scholar already well known for his laborious investigations in the text of the Greek Testament, and universally famous since then for his discovery of the Sinaitic MS. To Dr. Tischendorf, besides his careful essay, we owe the best and most complete critical edition of these spurious Gospels, as well as a similar collection of the Apocryphal Acts. And again it was the appearance of his

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