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his eyes blue and piercing; he was well pleased if any one on approaching him looked on the ground and affected to be unable to meet their dazzling brightness. It was said that his dress concealed many imperfections and blemishes on his person; but he could not disguise all the infirmities under which he laboured. The weakness of the forefinger of his right hand and a lameness in the left hip were the results of wounds he incurred in a battle with the Iapydæ in early life; he suffered repeated attacks of fever of the most serious kind, especially in the course of the campaign of Philippi and that against the Cantabrians, and again two years afterwards at Rome, when his recovery was despaired of. From that time, although constantly liable to be affected by cold and heat, and obliged to nurse himself throughout with the care of a valetudinarian, he does not appear to have had any return of illness so serious as the preceding; and dying at the age of seventy-four, the rumour obtained popular currency that he was prematurely cut off by poison administered by the empress. As the natural consequence of this bodily weakness and sickly constitution, Octavian did not attempt to distinguish himself by active exertions or feats of personal prowess. splendid examples of his uncle the dictator and of Antonius his rival, might have early discouraged him from attempting to shine as a warrior and hero: he had not the vivacity and natural spirits necessary to carry him through such exploits as theirs; and, although he did not shrink from exposing himself to personal danger, he prudently declined to allow a comparison to be instituted between himself and rivals whom he could not

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hope to equal. Thus necessarily thrown back upon other resources, he trusted to caution and circumspection, first to preserve his own life, and afterwards to obtain the splendid prizes which had hitherto been carried off by daring adventure, and the good fortune which is so often its attendant. His contest, therefore, with Antonius and Sextus Pompeius was the contest of cunning with bravery; but from his youth upwards he was accustomed to overreach, not the bold and reckless only, but the most considerate and wily of his contemporaries, such as Cicero and Cleopatra; he succeeded in the end in deluding the senate and people of Rome in the establishment of his tyranny, and finally deceived the expectations of the world, and falsified the lessons of the Republican history, in reigning himself forty years in disguise, and leaving a throne to be claimed without a challenge by his successors for fourteen centuries.

But although emperor in name, and in fact absolute master of his people, the manners of the Cæsar, both in public and private life, were still those of a simple citizen. On the most solemn occasions he was distinguished by no other dress than the robes and insignia of the offices which he exercised; he was attended by no other guards than those which his consular dignity rendered customary and decent. In his court there was none of the etiquette of modern monarchies to be recog nised, and it was only by slow and gradual encroachment that it came to prevail in that of his successors. Augustus was contented to take up his residence in the house which had belonged to the orator Licinius Calvus, in the neighbourhood of the Forum; which he afterwards abandoned for that of Hortensius on the Palatine, of which Suetonius observes that it was remarkable neither for size nor splendour. Its halls were small, and lined, not with marble, after the luxurious fashion of many

patrician palaces, but with the common Alban stone, and the pattern of the pavement was plain and simple. Nor when he succeeded Lepidus in the pontificate would he relinquish this private dwelling for the regia or public residence assigned that honourable office.

Many anecdotes are recorded of the moderation with which the emperor received the opposition, and often the rebukes, of individuals in public as well as in private. These stories are not without their importance, as showing how little formality there was in the tone of addressing the master of the Roman world, and how entirely dif ferent the ideas of the nation were with regard to the position occupied by the Caesar and his family from those with which modern associations have imbued us. We have already noticed the rude freedom with which Tiberius was attacked, although step-son of the emperor and participating in the eminent functions of the tribunitian power, by a declaimer in the schools at Rhodes; but Augustus himself seems to have suffered almost as much as any private citizen from the general coarseness of behaviour which characterised the Romans in their public assemblies, and the rebukes to which he patiently submitted were frequently such as would lay the courtier of a constitutional sovereign in modern Europe under perpetual disgrace.

On one occasion, for instance, in the public discharge of his functions as corrector of manners, he had brought a specific charge against a certain knight for having squandered his patrimony. The accused proved that he had, on the contrary, augmented it. 'Well,' answered the emperor, somewhat annoyed by his error, but you are at all events living in celibacy, contrary to recent enactments.' The other was able to reply that he was married, and was the father of three legitimate children; and when the emperor signified that he had no further charge to bring, added aloud: Another time, Cæsar, when you give ear to informations against honest men, take care that your informants are honest themselves.' Augustus felt the justice of the rebuke thus publicly administered, and submitted to it in silence.

Dean Merivale's nephew, Herman Charles, son of the permanent Under-Secretary for India, was a successful playwright and novelist. See the Dean's privately printed Autobiography (a fragment) and letters, edited by his daughter Judith (1899).

Henry Hart Milman(1791-1868) was the third son of an eminent London physician, Sir Francis Milman, and, educated at Greenwich, Eton, and Brasenose College, Oxford, in 1812 he gained the Newdigate with his Belvidere Apollo, best of Oxford prize poems. In 1815 a Fellow of his college,

in 1816 he became vicar of St Mary's, Reading; in 1821-31 Professor of Poetry at Oxford; in 1835 rector of St Margaret's, Westminster, and a canon of Westminster; and in 1849 Dean of St Paul's. His tragedy of Fazio, with a Florentine plot, was published in 1815, and was afterwards acted with success at Covent Garden. In 1820 he published a dramatic poem, The Fall of Jerusalem, and to this succeeded three other dramas, Belshazzar (1822), The Martyr of Antioch (1822), and Anne Boleyn (1826); but none of these was designed for the stage. For his 'heroic' or narrative poem on the defence of Britain against the Saxons, Samor, Lord of the Bright City (1818), he took the plot

from Holinshed and Harrison; Hengist and Horsa, Vortigern and Rowena, Emrys and Uther, Druids and Vikings, are amongst the characters of a poem with many fine passages. In virtue of Nala and Damayanti and other Poems translated from the Sanskrit (1834), he has claims to be remembered as an early interpreter of Indian thought and life to Englishmen. Dean Milman published also an edition of Gibbon's Decline and Fall, with notes and corrections, which remained the standard one till the publication of Mr Bury's (see Vol. II. p. 552); and as against Gibbon, the editor seemed more conservative and orthodox than in some of his own historical methods and results. Milman also produced an excellent edition of Horace, with a Life of the poet. He undertook to assist his friend Bishop Heber in arranging a series of hymns for the Christian year, and besides giving other valuable assistance, contributed several of the most admirable from his own pen, such as 'Ride on, ride on in majesty,' and 'When our heads are bowed with woe.' When Heber received the first-mentioned he wrote to Milman: 'A few more such hymns and I shall need not to wait for the aid of Scott and Southey.' In his hymns and other poems Milman showed abundance of pregnant thought, taste, dignity, tenderness, and metrical skill; but he lacks the dramatic spirit, the warmth of passion and imagination, necessary to vivify his classical or historical lore into tragedy or epic of perennial charm. His fame rests on his historical writings, the earliest of which, the History of the Jews, was originally published in Murray's 'Family Library' (1829; 4th edition, 1866), and created consternation among the orthodox as being rationalistic.

Milman, in his own words, had been able to follow out all the marvellous discoveries of science, and all the hardly less marvellous, if less certain, conclusions of historical, ethnological, linguistic criticism, in the serene confidence that they are utterly irrelevant to the truth of Christianity, to the truth of the Old Testament as far as concerns its distinct and perpetual authority, and its indubitable meaning.' He took up ground much less usual in the first half of the nineteenth than in the first decade of the twentieth century; the History of the Jews was, according to Dean Stanley, the first decisive inroad of German theology, the first indication that the Bible could be studied like another book. If on such subjects some solid ground be not found on which highly educated, reflective, reading, reasoning men may find firm footing, I can foresee nothing but a wide, a widening, I fear an irreparable breach between the thought and the religion of England. A comprehensive, all-embracing, truly Catholic Christianity, which knows what is essential to religion, what is temporary and extraneous to it, may defy the world. Obstinate adherence to things antiquated, and irreconcilable with advancing knowledge and thought, may repel, and for ever,

how many, I know not; how far, I know still less. Avertat omen Deus! Milman's History of Christianity to the Abolition of Paganism (1840) was followed by the magnum opus, The History of Latin Christianity to the Pontificate of Nicholas V. (6 vols. 1854-56). 'No such work,' it was truly said, 'has appeared in English ecclesiastical literature - none which combines such breadth of view with such depth of research, such high literary and artistic eminence with such patient and elaborate investigation.' This high praise has been echoed by a host of critics from Prescott to Lecky. The book has been called 'a complete epic and philosophy of medieval Christendom,' and is really a great work in most of the essentials of history, though modern research has inevitably modified many of its conclusions. Macaulay, agreeing that the matter was excellent, somewhat hypercritically voted the style 'very much the reverse.' Yet the very candour, catholicity, and frank application of honest and reverent critical method, hitherto too rare in the sphere of Church history, again provoked in some quarters the charge of 'rationalism.' The last work of Dean Milman was his St Paul's Cathedral (1854-56; completed by his son and published in 1868), the church over which he had presided for nearly twenty years, and in which he was buried. Articles on Erasmus, Savonarola, and other subjects contributed to the Quarterly were published as a volume in 1870.

The Burning of the Temple.

It was the 10th of August, the day already darkened in the Jewish calendar by the destruction of the former temple by the king of Babylon; that day was almost past. Titus withdrew again into the Antonia, intending the next morning to make a general assault. The quiet summer evening came on; the setting sun shone for the last time on the snow-white walls and glistening pinnacles of the Temple roof. Titus had retired to rest, when suddenly a wild and terrible cry was heard, and a man came rushing in, announcing that the Temple was on fire. Some of the besieged, notwithstanding their repulse in the morning, had sallied out to attack the men who were busily employed in extinguishing the fires about the cloisters. The Romans not merely drove them back, but, entering the sacred space with them, forced their way to the door of the Temple. A soldier, without orders, mounting on the shoulders of one of his comrades, threw a blazing brand into a small gilded door on the north side of the chambers, in the outer The building or porch. The flames sprang up at once. Jews uttered one simultaneous shriek, and grasped their swords with a furious determination of revenging and perishing in the ruins of the Temple. Titus rushed down with the utmost speed: he shouted, he made signs to his soldiers to quench the fire; his voice was drowned, and his signs unnoticed, in the blind confusion. The legionaries either could not or would not hear; they rushed on, trampling each other down in their furious haste, or stumbling over the crumbling ruins, perished with the enemy. Each exhorted the other, and each hurled his blazing brand into the inner part

of the edifice, and then hurried to his work of carnage. The unarmed and defenceless people were slain in thousands; they lay heaped like sacrifices round the altar; the steps of the Temple ran with streams of blood, which washed down the bodies that lay about.

Titus found it impossible to check the rage of the soldiery; he entered with his officers, and surveyed the interior of the sacred edifice. The splendour filled them with wonder; and as the flames had not yet penetrated to the Holy Place, he made a last effort to save it, and springing forth, again exhorted the soldiers to stay the progress of the conflagration. The centurion Liberalis endeavoured to force obedience with his staff of office; but even respect for the emperor gave way to the furious animosity against the Jews, to the fierce excitement of battle, and to the insatiable hope of plunder. The soldiers saw everything around them radiant with gold, which shone dazzlingly in the wild light of the flames; they supposed that incalculable treasures were laid up in the sanctuary. A soldier, unperceived, thrust a lighted torch between the hinges of the door; the whole building was in flames in an instant. The blinding smoke and fire forced the officers to retreat, and the noble edifice was left to its fate.

It was an appalling spectacle to the Roman-what was it to the Jew? The whole summit of the hill which commanded the city blazed like a volcano. One after another the buildings fell in, with a tremendous crash, and were swallowed up in the fiery abyss. The roofs of cedar were like sheets of flame; the gilded pinnacles shone like spikes of red light; the gate towers sent up tall columns of flame and smoke. The neighbouring hills were lighted up, and dark groups of people were seen watching in horrible anxiety the progress of the destruction; the walls and heights of the upper city were crowded with faces, some pale with the agony of despair, others scowling unavailing vengeance. The shouts of the Roman soldiery as they ran to and fro, and the howlings of the insurgents who were perishing in the flames, mingled with the roaring of the conflagration and the thundering sound of falling timbers. The echoes of the mountains replied or brought back the shrieks of the people on the heights; all along the walls resounded screams and wailings; men who were expiring with famine rallied their remaining strength to utter a cry of anguish and desolation.

The slaughter within was even more dreadful than the spectacle from without. Men and women, old and young, insurgents and priests, those who fought and those who entreated mercy, were hewn down in indiscriminate carnage. The number of the slain exceeded that of the slayers. The legionaries had to clamber over heaps of dead to carry on the work of extermination. John, at the head of some of his troops, cut his way through, first into the outer court of the Temple, afterwards into the upper city. Some of the priests upon the roof wrenched off the gilded spikes, with their sockets of lead, and used them as missiles against the Romans below. Afterwards they fled to a part of the wall, about fourteen feet wide; they were summoned to surrender, but two of them, Mair, son of Belga, and Joseph, son of Dalai, plunged headlong into the flames.

No part escaped the fury of the Romans. The treasuries, with all their wealth of money, jewels, and costly robes the plunder which the Zealots had laid up—were totally destroyed. Nothing remained but a small part

of the outer cloister, in which about six thousand unarmed and defenceless people, with women and children, had taken refuge. These poor wretches, like multitudes of others, had been led up to the Temple by a false prophet, who had proclaimed that God commanded all the Jews to go up to the Temple, where He would display His almighty power to save His people. The soldiers set fire to the building: every soul perished.

The whole Roman army entered the sacred precincts, and pitched their standards among the smoking ruins; they offered sacrifice for the victory, and with loud acclamations saluted Titus as Emperor. Their joy was not a little enhanced by the value of the plunder they obtained, which was so great that gold fell in Syria to half its former value. (From the History of the Jews.)

The Emperor Henry IV. at Canossa. On a dreary winter morning, with the ground deep in snow, the King, the heir of a long line of emperors, was permitted to enter within the two outer of the three walls which girded the castle of Canossa. He had laid aside every mark of royalty or of distinguished station; he was clad only in the thin white linen dress of the penitent, and there, fasting, he awaited in humble patience the pleasure of the Pope. But the gates did not unclose. A second day he stood, cold, hungry, and mocked by vain hope. And yet a third day dragged on from morning to evening over the unsheltered head of the discrowned King. Every heart was moved except that of the representative of Jesus Christ. Even in the presence of Gregory there were low, deep murmurs against his unapostolic pride and inhumanity. The patience of Henry could endure no more; he took refuge in an adjacent chapel of St Nicholas, to implore, and with tears, once again the intercession of the aged Abbot of Clugny. Matilda was present; her womanly heart was melted; she joined with Henry in his supplications to the Abbot. 'Thou alone canst accomplish this,' said the Abbot to the Countess. Henry fell on his knees, and in a passion of grief entreated her merciful interference. To female entreaties and influence Gregory at length yielded an ungracious permission for the King to approach his presence. With bare feet, still in the garb of penitence, stood the King, a man of singularly tall and noble person, with a countenance accustomed to flash command and terror upon his adversaries, before the Pope, a grey-haired man, bowed with years, of small unimposing stature.

The terms exacted from Henry, who was far too deeply humiliated to dispute anything, had no redeeming touch of gentleness or compassion. He was to appear in the place and at the time which the Pope should name to answer the charges of his subjects before the Pope himself, if it should please him to preside in person at the trial. If he should repel these charges, he was to receive his kingdom back from the hands of the Pope. If found guilty, he was peaceably to resign his kingdom, and pledge himself never to attempt to seek revenge for his deposition. Till that time he was to assume none of the ensigns of royalty, perform no public act, appropriate no part of the royal revenue which was not necessary for the maintenance of himself and of his attendants; all his subjects were to be held released from their oath of allegiance; he was to banish for ever from his court Rupert Bishop of Bamberg and Ulric Count of Cosheim,

with his other evil advisers; if he should recover his kingdom, he must rule henceforward according to the counsel of the Pope, and correct whatever was contrary to the ecclesiastical laws. On these conditions the Pope condescended to grant absolution, with the further provision that, in case of any prevarication on the part of the King on any of these articles, the absolution was null and void, and in that case the princes of the empire were released from all their oaths, and might immediately proceed to the election of another king.

The oath of Henry was demanded to these conditions, to his appearance before the tribunal of the Pope, and to the safe-conduct of the Pope if he should be pleased to cross the Alps. But the King's oath was not deemed sufficient; who would be his compurgators? The Abbot of Clugny declined, as taking such oath was inconsistent with his monastic vows. At length the Archbishop of Bremen, the Bishops of Vercelli, Osnaburg, and Zeitz, the Marquis Azzo, and others of the princes present, ventured to swear on the holy reliques to the King's faithful fulfilment of all these hard conditions.

But even yet the unforgiving Hildebrand had not forced the King to drink the dregs of humiliation. He had degraded Henry before men, he would degrade him in the presence of God; he had exalted himself to the summit of earthly power, he would appeal to Heaven to ratify and to sanction this assumption of unapproachable superiority.

After the absolution had been granted in due form, the Pope proceeded to celebrate the awful mystery of the Eucharist. He called the King towards the altar; he lifted in his hands the consecrated host, the body of the Lord, and spoke these words: 'I have been accused by thee and by thy partisans of having usurped the Apostolic See by simoniacal practices-of having been guilty, both before and after my elevation to the Episcopate, of crimes which would disqualify me for my sacred office. I might justify myself by proof, and by the witness of those who have known me from my youth, whose suffrages have raised me to the Apostolic See. But to remove every shadow of suspicion, I appeal from human testimony to divine. Behold the Lord's body; be this the test of my innocence. May God acquit me by His judgment this day of the crimes with which I am charged; if guilty, strike me dead at once.' He then took and ate the consecrated wafer. A pause ensued; he stood unscathed in calm assurance. A sudden burst of admiration thrilled the whole congregation. When silence was restored he addressed the King: Do thou, my son, as I have done! The Princes of the German Empire have accused thee of crimes heinous and capital, such as in justice should exclude thee not only from the administration of public affairs, but from the communion of the Church and all intercourse with the faithful to thy dying day. They eagerly demand a solemn trial. But human decisions are liable to error; falsehood, dressed out in eloquence, enslaves the judgment; truth, without this artificial aid, meets with contempt. As thou hast implored my protection, act according to my counsel. If thou art conscious of thy innocence, and assured that the accusations against thee are false, by this short course free the Church of God from scandal, thyself from long and doubtful trial. Take thou too the body of the Lord, and if God avouches thy innocence, thou stoppest for ever the mouths of thy accusers. I shall become at once the advocate of

thy cause, the assertor of thy guiltlessness, thy nobles will be reconciled to thee, thy kingdom restored, the fierce tumult of civil war which destroys thy empire be allayed for ever.' (From Latin Christianity.)

Titus.

Jerusalem before the Siege.
It must be--
And yet it moves me, Romans! It confounds
The counsel of my firm philosophy
That Ruin's merciless ploughshare must pass o'er
And barren salt be sown on yon proud city.

As on our olive-crowned hill we stand,
Where Kedron at our feet its scanty waters
Distils from stone to stone with gentle motion,
As through a valley sacred to sweet peace,
How boldly doth it front us! how majestically!
Like a luxurious vineyard, the hillside

Is hung with marble fabrics, line o'er line,
Terrace o'er terrace, nearer still, and nearer

To the blue heavens. Here bright and sumptuous palaces,

With cool and verdant gardens interspersed ;
Here towers of war that frown in massy strength;
While over all hangs the rich purple eve,
As conscious of its being her last farewell
Of light and glory to that fated city.
And, as our clouds of battle dust and smoke
Are melted into air, behold the Temple
In undisturbed and lone serenity,
Finding itself a solemn sanctuary

In the profound of heaven! It stands before us
A mount of snow, fretted with golden pinnacles!
The very sun, as though he worshipped there,
Lingers upon the gilded cedar roofs,
And down the long and branching porticoes,
On every flowery-sculptured capital,
Glitters the homage of his parting beams.
By Hercules! the sight might almost win
The offended majesty of Rome to mercy.

Summons of the Destroying Angel to Babylon,
The hour is come! the hour is come! With voice
Heard in thy inmost soul, I summon thee,
Cyrus, the Lord's anointed! And thou river,
That flowest exulting in thy proud approach
To Babylon, beneath whose shadowy walls,
And brazen gates, and gilded palaces,
And groves, that gleam with marble obelisks,
Thy azure bosom shall repose, with lights
Fretted and chequered like the starry heavens :
I do arrest thee in thy stately course,

By Him that poured thee from thine ancient fountain,
And sent thee forth, even at the birth of time,
One of His holy streams, to lave the mounts
Of Paradise. Thou hear'st me: thou dost check
Abrupt thy waters as the Arab chief
His headlong squadrons. Where the unobserved
Yet toiling Persian breaks the ruining mound,
I see thee gather thy tumultuous strength;
And, through the deep and roaring Naharmalcha,
Roll on as proudly conscious of fulfilling
The omnipotent command! While, far away,
The lake, that slept but now so calm, nor moved,
Save by the rippling moonshine, heaves on high
Its foaming surface like a whirlpool-gulf,
And boils and whitens with the unwonted tide.

But silent as thy billows used to flow, And terrible, the hosts of Elam move,

Winding their darksome way profound, where man Ne'er trod, nor light e'er shone, nor air from heaven Breathed. O ye secret and unfathomed depths, How are ye now a smooth and royal way

For the army of God's vengeance! Fellow-slaves

And ministers of the Eternal purpose,

Not guided by the treacherous, injured sons

Of Babylon, but by my mightier arm,

Ye come, and spread your banners, and display
Your glittering arms as ye advance, all white
Beneath the admiring moon. Come on! the gates
Are open-not for banqueters in blood
Like you! I see on either side o'erflow
The living deluge of armed men, and cry,
'Begin, begin! with fire and sword begin
The work of wrath.' Upon my shadowy wings
I pause, and float a little while, to see
Mine human instruments fulfil my task
Of final ruin. Then I mount, I fly,
And sing my proud song, as I ride the clouds,
That stars may hear, and all the hosts of worlds,
That live along the interminable space,
Take up Jehovah's everlasting triumph!

A Fair Recluse.

(From Belshazzar.)

Sunk was the sun, and up the eastern heaven,
Like maiden on a lonely pilgrimage,
Moved the meek star of eve; the wandering air
Breathed odours; wood and waveless lake, like man,
Slept, weary of the garish, babbling day. . .

But she the while from human tenderness
Estranged, and gentler feelings that light up
The cheek of youth with rosy joyous smile,
Like a forgotten lute, played on alone
By chance-caressing airs, amid the wild
Beauteously pale and sadly playful grew,
A lonely child, by not one human heart
Beloved, and loving none: nor strange if learned
Her native fond affections to embrace
Things senseless and inanimate; she loved
All flowerets that with rich embroidery fair
Enamel the green earth-the odorous thyme,
Wild rose, and roving eglantine; nor spared
To mourn their fading forms with childish tears.
Gray birch and aspen light she loved, that droop
Fringing the crystal stream; the sportive breeze
That wantoned with her brown and glossy locks;
The sunbeam chequering the fresh bank; ere dawn
Wandering, and wandering still at dewy eve,
By Glenderamakin's flower-empurpled marge,
Derwent's blue lake, or Greta's wildering glen.
Rare sound to her was human voice, scarce heard
Save of her aged nurse or shepherd maid
Soothing the child with simple tale or song.
Hence all she knew of earthly hopes and fears,
Life's sins and sorrows: better known the voice
Beloved of lark from misty morning cloud
Blithe carolling, and wild melodious notes
Heard mingling in the summer wood, or plaint
By moonlight, of the lone night-warbling bird.
Nor they of love unconscious, all around
Fearless, familiar they their descants sweet
Tuned emulous. Her knew all living shapes
That tenant wood or rock, dun roe or deer,

Sunning his dappled side, at noontide crouched,
Courting her fond caress; nor fled her gaze
The brooding dove, but murmured sounds of joy.
(From Samor.)

Apostrophe to Britain.

Land of my birth, O Britain! and my love, Whose air I breathe, whose earth I tread, whose tongue My song would speak, its strong and solemn tones Most proud, if I abase not. Beauteous isle, And plenteous! what though in thy atmosphere Float not the taintless luxury of light, The dazzling azure of the southern skies? Around thee the rich orb of thy renown Spreads stainless and unsullied by a cloud. Though thy hills blush not with the purple vine, And softer climes excel thee in the hue And fragrance of thy summer fruits and flowers, Nor flow thy rivers over golden beds; Thou in the soul of man, thy better wealth, Art richest nature's noblest produce thou, The immortal mind in perfect height and strength, Bear'st with a prodigal opulence; this thy right, Thy privilege of climate and of soil,

Would I assert: nor, save thy fame, invoke,

Or nymph, or muse, that oft 'twas dream'd of old
By falls of waters under haunted shades,
Her ecstasy of inspiration pour'd

O'er poet's soul, and flooded all his powers

With liquid glory: so may thy renown
Burn in my heart, and give to thought and word
The aspiring and the radiant hue of fire.

(From Samor.)

Reginald Heber (1783-1826), Bishop of Calcutta, was son of the rector of Malpas in Cheshire, and half-brother of Richard Heber the famous bibliophile, whose collection numbered nearly 150,000 volumes. In 1800 he went up to Brasenose College, Oxford, and in his first year won the university prize for Latin hexameters. In 1803 he secured the Newdigate by his poem of Palestine, pronounced the best prize-poem the university had produced; parts of it were set to music by Dr Crotch. Before reciting it in the theatre of the university Heber read it to Sir Walter Scott, then on a visit to Oxford. When Scott, praising the verses on Solomon's Temple, said he had not noted that no tools were used in building it, Heber retired for a few minutes to the corner of the room, and returned with the famous lines:

No hammer fell, no ponderous axes rung;
Like some tall palm the mystic fabric sprung.
Majestic silence!

In 1805 he gained the prize for the English essay, and was elected to a fellowship at All Souls'; soon after he went abroad, travelling over Germany, Russia, and the Crimea; and on his return in 1807 he became rector of Hodnet in Shropshire. He appeared again as a poet in 1809 with Europe, or Lines on the Present War (in Spain). He discharged the duties of a parish priest with unostentatious fidelity and application,

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