XI.

And when it ended, 'twas as visions die

Of the third Heaven, and all its seraph throng:
Or fades a rapture from the prophet's eye,

Upon the house-top listening their sweet song.
Ah! never more to hear that harmony,

Still on the breezy height I linger'd long:
While, to prolong the worship, bells out-peal'd,
And the strong tower beneath me rock'd and reel'd.*

XII.

And then, or ever their glad voice was done,
Descending to the walks, I wandered round,
Or watch'd the golden lustre of the sun

Bright'ning the belfry that gave forth the sound,
And seem'd the deep blue sky to float upon,

Solid, yet light,-and springing from the ground,
With battlements above the verdure tall;

It look'd unearthly, and aerial.

XIII.

And pleasant, as I walk'd, the Rookery-scream;
The fresh, cool, joyous, influence of the air;
And incense floating like a morning dream,
Of fragrant sweetbriar lurking everywhere.

But thoughts of pleasant men did sweeter seem
As in their very footsteps I did fare;

And walk'd with Addison, or talk'd with Horne,
In their old haunts that memorable morn.

*The massive masonry vibrates and trembles so as to affect many persons as with sea-sickness.

XIV.

Ah! ye that linger where so soon I pass'd,

My friends of Magdalen, and thou Reverend Form! Of olden worth the lonely leaf and last,*

Who gavest my bended head a blessing warm;

If on this votive page a glance ye cast,

Remember one, escaped th' Atlantic storm,

Who found adventure's rich reward that day

When, on your tower, he welcom'd England's May.

* Dr. Routh, president of Magdalen, then in his 100th year, and the 6oth of his presidency.

(AUTHOR OF "JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.")

PHILIP MY KING.

"Who bears upon his baby brow the round and top of sovereignty."

Look at me with thy large brown eyes,
Philip my king,

Round whom the enshadowing purple lies

Of babyhood's royal dignities:

Lay on my neck thy tiny hand

With love's invisible sceptre laden;

I am thine Esther to command

Till thou shalt find a queen-handmaiden,
Philip my king.

O the day thou goest a-wooing,
Philip my king!

When those beautiful lips are suing,
And some gentle heart's bars undoing,
Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there
Sittest love-glorified. Rule kindly,

Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair,

For we that love, ah! we love so blindly,
Philip my king.

Up from thy sweet mouth,-up to thy brow,
Philip my king!

The spirit that there lies sleeping now

May rise like a giant and make men bow
As to one heaven-chosen among his peers.

My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairer
Let me behold thee in future years;—
Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer,
Philip my king.

-A wreath not of gold, but palm. One day,
Philip my king,

Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way
Thorny and cruel and cold and gray:

Rebels within thee and foes without,

Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glorious,

Martyr, yet monarch: till angels shout

As thou didst at the feet of God, victorious,
"Philip my king."

THE WIND AT NIGHT.

O sudden blast, that through this silence black
Sweeps past my windows,

Coming and going with invisible track,

As death or sin does,—

Why scare me, lying sick, and, save thine own,

Hearing no voices ?

Why mingle with a helpless human moan

Thy mad rejoices?

Why not come gently, as good angels come
To souls departing,

Floating among the shadows of the room

With eyes light darting,

Bringing faint airs of balm that seem to rouse
Thoughts of a Far Land,

Then binding softly upon weary brows
Death's poppy-garland?

O fearful blast, I shudder at thy sound,

Like heathen mortal

Who saw the Three that mark life's doomèd bound
Sit at his portal.

Thou mightst be laden with sad shrieking souls,

Carried unwilling

From their known earth to the unknown stream that rolls All anguish stilling.

Fierce wind, will the Death-angel come like thee,

Soon, soon to bear me

-Whither? what mysteries may unfold to me,

What terrors scare me?

Shall I go winding on through empty space

As on earth, lonely?

Or seek through myriad spirit-ranks one face,
And miss that only?

Shall I not then drop down from sphere to sphere

Palsied and aimless?

Or will my being change so, that both fear
And grief die nameless?

Rather I pray Him who Himself is Love,
Out of whose essence

We all proceed, and towards Him tending, move
Back to His presence,