When each star beams full of love
From the peaceful night above,

Oft we see some child of wandering
That in heaven hath lost its place,
Gaze one moment, as if pondering,
Start and vanish into space;

So, as ancient legends say,
Seldom paused or rested they,
Wandering on for aye, for aye.

"Dreams of heaven on the brow Of the dead, are smiling now;

All around in silent sadness,

Weep the monks their murdered lord:
Hark! that rapturous burst of madness
Starting from each quivering chord

Of those hearts, that now have found
One thro' whom their walls renowned
Shall ever be with glory crowned.

Years have rolled upon their way,

Since that dread, that fateful day,

Anxious crowds, who seek some blessing,

Some relief from sickening doom,

Onward with glad hearts are pressing,

To the sainted martyr's tomb,

Blazoned all with gems and gold:

What a glory now doth fold

Him who sleeps so still, so cold!

11 The monks sat weeping around; the aged Robert consoled them by a narration of the austere life of the martyred prelate, in proof of it he thrust his hand under the garments, and showed the monk's habit and haircloth which he wore next to his skin. This was the one thing wanted to raise the enthusiasm of the bystanders to the highest pitch. They burst into thanksgivings, which resounded through the choir, kissed the hands and feet of the corpse, and called him by the name of Saint Thomas,' by which, from that time forward, he was so long known to the European world.

*

STANLEY'S MEMORIALS OF CANTERBURY.

But woe for him who once decreed
In his wrath that fatal deed,

Never dawned a brighter morrow
On the night of grief he bore,

Till he bowed in shame and sorrow Martyred Becket's shrine before; Then, through many an after age, King and peasant, priest and sage, Prest on in one great pilgrimage.

O can we their weakness blame,
Who in true contrition came,

Who in true contrition bending
Once from sin sought pardon there,
Who a thousand voices blending
Breathed to heav'n some earnest prayer?
Rather mourn its splendour flown,
12 A King the shrine hath overthrown,
Hath ta'en its glories for his own.

Yet mourn not, for that temple still
Holiness and beauty fill;

Hark! the white-robed band of singers

Hymn a purer song of praise;

While the summer fondly lingers,

Or reluctant turns her gaze,

And autumn's lovely blush is seen
Many a leafy bower between,
Crimson from a veil of green.

12 Henry VIII.

There the hop its wild festoon
Hath luxuriantly thrown,

And a dark green arch hath builded,
Where its golden flower is born;
There the hill-side bright is gilded
With a waving sea of corn;

There the meadows lie below,

By the river's silver flow,

Smiling 'neath the sunset glow.

Through the evening calm and still,
Breezes from the distant hill,

Bearing many a joyous fragrance,
Bearing many a warbled song,
Ever in their wanton vagrance

Play thy turret-tops among;
While sweet nature, loveliest
Of all God's children, on her breast
Lulls thee to a holy rest.

SENARII GRAECI

AUCTORE

GULIELMO M. CLAY.

3

SPENSER. FAERIE QUEEN.

Book I, c. 5, s. 37-40.

HIPPOLYTUS a iolly huntsman was,

That wont in charett chace the foming bore:
He all his peeres in beauty did surpas :
But ladies love, as losse of time, forbore:
His wanton stepdame loved him the more;
But when she saw her offred sweets refusd,
Her love she turnd to hate and him before
His father fierce of treason false accusd,
And with her gealous termes his open eares abusd;

Who, all in rage, his seagod syre besought

Some cursed vengeaunce on his sonne to cast:

From surging gulf two monsters streight were brought;

With dread whereof his chacing steedes aghast

Both charett swifte and huntsman overcast.

His goodly corps, on ragged cliffs yrent,
Was quite dismembred, and his members chast
Scattered on every mountaine as he went,

That of Hippolytus was lefte no moniment.