SHAKESPEARE.

UNSEEN in the great minster dome of time,
Whose shafts are centuries, its spangled roof
The vaulted universe, our master sits,

And organ-voices like a far-off chime

Roll thro' the aisles of thought. The sunlight flits From arch to arch, and, as he sits aloof, Kings, heroes, priests, in concourse vast, sublime, Glances of love and cries from battle-field, His wizard power breathes on the living air. Warm faces gleam and pass, child, woman, man, In the long multitude; but he, concealed, Our bard eludes us, vainly each face we scan, It is not he; his features are not there;

But, being thus hid, his greatness is revealed.

AT MADAME TUSSAUD'S.

I STOOD in that strange show, the other day,
On Baker Street, where all the famous men,
Fair dames, and murderers come to life again,
With clockwork breast and face of mimic clay,
To scare the young. Thrice in the long display,
Blundering, I thought wax flesh, then, with surprise
At being deceived, I turned with cautious eyes
And took for wax all those that thronged my way.

So in this age, methinks, when in the light

Of fuller knowledge, forms that men have reared

And worshipped turn to dust, too hasty youths, Shunning the whirlpool jaws of credulous sight,

Rush towards a Scylla far more to be feared,
And take for shadows all too living truths.

WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

'Twas afternoon in winter, and the light Sloped softly up the walls, as day was done,

In tremulous cloud-beams, while the westering sun Blazoned with saints the columns opposite.

All sounds had died away; to left and right
Was silence, tho' I seemed to hear again.
The spirit-echoes of the last Amen

Far in the groinèd shadowings out of sight.

Oh! silence strange, so deep, so vast, profound;

Ten ages slumber in the dust beneath,

And yet no voice, -no voice from those who trod

These aisles before and lie so still around.

Oh! is it that they lose all voice in death,
Seeing what they see, and being so close to God?

NEW YEAR'S EVE.

We stand above the abyss; beneath our feet
Around and onward infinite darkness rolls.
The sky above is black; the watch-bell tolls
The dying year. While slow on silent feet

Pale ghosts come towards us from the ice-locked street
Of thought's great city; faces young and old,
Eyes sunken, features set and deathly cold.
And noiseless bear the dead year's winding-sheet.

But lo! where now we stand is worn with tread
Of millions; in the darkness feel, the ground
Is dust of powdered bones; sure, on this peak
The years have died, and millions of the dead
Have waited vainly through the gloom profound,
For dawn of day or trumpet-voice to speak.

AD MAJOREM DEI GLORIAM.

THY glory alone, O God, be the end of all that I say; Let it shine in every deed, let it kindle the prayers

that I pray;

Let it burn in my innermost soul, till the shadow of pass away,

self

And the light of Thy glory, O God, be unveiled in

the dawning of day.