and saith 'Aha! I am warm,' (enjoys his own ingenuity and comforts himself with it), and with the rest he makes a god; and then the Shelleys and the Byrons fall down and worship the work of their own hands: but the righteous man dedicates and adorns them that they may become cherubim whose outspread golden wings gleam under the carven palms and pomegranates of the Temple; and Hiram, the widow's son of Tyre, is anointed with the spirit of wisdom and understanding, so that his dreams are filled with the pendant lily-work and the fair wreathings of the Sanctuary, catching, while the veil is drawn aside, a glimmer of the Shekinah."

For the present this must suffice, but in the following number we hope to give further examples of these remarkable criticisms, and on subjects no less interesting. In conclusion, we must acknowledge our entire indebtedness to Mrs. Smetham and Mr. Davies, without whose generosity we should not have been able to enrich these pages in the way we have done.

THE EDITOR.

DIVERSI COLORES.

FOR DAISY: IMITATED FROM CATULLUS, XLVIIJ.

NAY, had but you, most beautiful, most loved,
Given me all my way,-

Thrown back your gorgeous head out of pure joy,

Nor stirred at all till I

Had with three hundred thousand kisses shut

Those honied eyes of yours,

My heart would not have sated been; no, no,

Not if our kisses' score

Surpast the infinite ears of ripened corn

That summer looks upon.

ΤΟ

-

ON RETURNING A SILK KERCHIEF OF

HERS.

WINGED with my kisses go, go thou to her

And bid her bind thee round her faultless throat,

Till thou, close-lying o'er the charmèd stir

Of her white breast, grow warm and seem to float

Away into the golden noon, the still,

Deep sunlight of her. Oh, sleep on! 'Tis thine,

Love's summer day. No, not June's throngèd hours

So glad are when the song of birds fulfill

Earth, and the breezes in the grass decline,

Held by the scent of many thousand flowers.

Yet loose that flood of kisses that thou hast
Into her bosom and through all her hair,
Whispering it is my utmost wealth amassed

For her being fairest, nor do thou forbear
Until she feel my spirit, like a blush,

Steal by her shoulder and frail neck, for when
The gorgeous scarlet burning shall have moved

Over her cheek, the little after-hush

Will tell to her that I am happy then,

God! for how short a time, and-she is loved.

Loved? Wherefore loved that never may be had,
Never enjoyed? Is it that thus might grow
From out a look, a touch, now past and sad,
My Beatrice, and my perfect love, and so
Dwell with me here although the while I guess
'Tis but a dream which only does me wrong.

O wretched thought! and yet the hour that girds

My pensive nature with her loveliness,

Would bitter be as 'tis unto this Song

To wed these thoughts too stern for dainty words.

Would 'twere no dream this dream, this long, devout,

Untiring worship vainly yet essayed,

This absolute love, then were the torturing doubt,

The troubled ocean of the soul allayed;

Desire would have her lust and we have ease
Here from her everlasting thirst, nor pine

Vainly, but feel the fret, the harrowed breath,
The throbbing heart that will not, will not cease,
Stilled into marble, Greek-like, calm, divine,

Remembering not the past-Stay! This is death.

LINES SUGGESTED BY THE OMISSION OF THE WORD " HAERETICISQUE" IN THE RESTORED INSCRIPTION ON SIR THOMAS MORE'S TOMB AT CHELSEA.

FROM Arius to Luther it was truth,

They in this night

Looked but diversely for the breaking east ;

Yea, Lord, in sooth

All, all desired thy light

And mourned sin had not ceased.

Light, light!" they cried, and yet no light prevailed.

What, stumbled they?

They stumbled then where no man surely trod,

Though Christ they hailed.

Beautiful spirits! Aye,

I dwell in too much beauty, O my God!

LINES WRITTEN IN THE GLEN AT PENKILL.

'Tis nature's garden that she made
For love and noble thought,
A wonder of green boughs and shade
Through which a stream she brought,
With bubbling wells to cool the glade.
It were a place, if any were,

To tell the sacred sheaves

Of garnered joys within this fair,
This quiet church of leaves,
Unto the good, the patient air.

But love, and life, and holy song,

Already fade and lose

Their early zest, and soonest wrong

That which we most would choose,

And mingle with the common throng.

HERBERT P. HORNE.