Gilded they were without, and dazzling gleamed;
Within all leaden, of such weight impeding

That Frederick's to compare would chaff be deemed.
O garb for ever wearisome exceeding !

Then to the left hand yet again we turned

Along with them, their plaints of sadness heeding; But for the load that weary race had earned

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So slow they came, that we while onwards pressing
At every step companions new discerned.

Then, Couldst thou find,' I said, my guide addressing, 'Some one by actions or by race renowned?

Move well thine eyes around thee, thus progressing.' Then one, the Tuscan dialect who owned,

Called after us, 'O stay your feet untired

Ye who so hasten through the air embrowned; Perchance of me thy wish may be acquired.'

Then turned my guide, and 'Stay awhile' exhorted,

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'And then move forwards at the pace desired.'

Then stopping two I saw whose mien reported

The eager soul that hasted to outstride me,

Which yet the strait path and their burden thwarted.
When they at last came up, askance they eyed me
With sternest look, no word of utterance giving;
Then turning to each other spake beside me,
'This one by his throat's action seemeth living;
If they be dead, whence have they dispensation
To walk unburdened by the garb of grieving?'
And then to me, 'Tuscan, who to the nation

Of the sad hypocrites hast thyself addressed,
Disdain not to declare thy name and station.'
And I my birth and growth and home confessed
In the great town on Arno's pleasant river;
And this the body I had e'er possessed.

'But who are ye, whose eyes such woe deliver

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As I behold, wherewith your visage reeketh?

What pain is this, whose spark so fierce doth quiver?'

'Ah me, the gilt cowls,' one in answer speaketh,

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'Are lead, so heavy that their burden smothers

The wretched balance which beneath them creaketh.

We were Bologna's children, joyous brothers,

I Catalan, he Loderingo named,

Together taken by thy land, as others

Oft have been singly chosen, and proclaimed

Sole guardians of the peace; and how we plied

Our trade around Gardingo yet is famed.'

Then I, 'O friars, your evils-' but replied

No further, for I saw that there existed

One stretched on earth, with three stakes, crucified.
He when he saw me all his body twisted,

And puffed his tangled beard apart with sighing;
And Catalan, who my desire assisted,

Was ware, and said, 'That pierced one thou art eying
Gave counsel to the Pharisees, that rightly
One man should suffer, for the people dying.
There, as thou seest, naked and unsightly

Athwart the road he lies, and must have fetched
From all that pass sure proof ere this how lightly
Each one doth tread. So his wife's sire is stretched

Likewise, and others of the council yonder,

That for the Jews did scatter seed so wretched.'
Then saw I how o'er him did Virgil ponder
Thus abjectly upon the cross extended,
His sentence of eternal exile under.
Then to the friars he said, 'Be not offended
If we entreat you, so ye may, to rede us
If to the right hand any chasm be rended
Whereby we two departing hence may speed us,
So the black angels be no more constrained
To come and from this nether valley lead us.'
'Nearer than thou dost hope,' he then explained,
There lies a rock, which, the great circle leaving,
Spans all the savage gulfs aloft sustained,
Save that it here is riven, no cope upheaving

Of arch; this ruin for your ascent availeth,
Piled from the base, and to the hill-side cleaving.'
My guide with head bent low as one that aileth
Stood, and then said, 'Then he was falsifying
Our task, the sinners yonder who impaleth.'

'Much at Bologna,' said the friar replying,

'Of the devil's sins I heard; among them hearing That he was a liar, and the father of lying.' Thereat my guide, some mark of anger bearing Upon his face, with great steps onwards moved; And I myself from those oppressed ones tearing Followed the traces of his feet beloved.

(To be continued.)

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True Cross! on which the dying head
Sank, murmuring, 'It is finished!'
On thee began my earliest grief;
On thee I find my last relief;
On thee my every pain shall end,
Beside my Saviour and my Friend.

True Cross! to thee I daily cling,
For on thee hangs my only King;
Might I but share His throne of scorn,
And wear with Him one sharpened thorn,
Then my glad soul I would restore

Into God's Hands for evermore.

F. HARRISON.

MUSINGS OVER THE CHRISTIAN YEAR

AND LYRA INNOCENTIUM.

ST. PHILIP AND ST. JAMES.

MAY-DAY is one of the remarkable specimens of the greater sunniness, if it may be so called, of thought that belongs to the poetry of Mr. Keble's later years. To be sure it is the children's holiday, and he has thrown himself into their childhood; but in his earlier poem-a very early one, we believe-there is only a pensive outlook upon middle life in contrast with the charms of childhood and old age. This is a youthful feeling, that makes the verses thoroughly sympathetic and congenial to the young, though we verily believe that the dust and weariness of middle age are more in anticipation than in reality, and that where health and spirits are fair the sense of fresh youth and enjoyment goes much further on through life than these stanzas would lead one to expect. That is, of course we mean, where the conditions are fulfilled.

Who but a Christian through all life

That blessing may prolong,

Who through the world's sad day of strife

Still chant his morning song?'

Yet though experience may shew that 'a merry heart goes all the way,' the anticipation of dreariness under the heat and burthen of the day is almost universal in pensive youth; and the true answer to such a dread is here given in full force and beauty.

'O shame upon thee, listless heart,

So sad a sigh to heave;

As if the Saviour had no part

In thoughts that make thee grieve.

As if along His lonesome way
He had not borne for thee
Sad languors through the summer day,
Storms on the wintry sea.

Youth's lightning flash of joy secure
Pass'd seldom o'er His sprite;
A well of serious thought and pure,
Too deep for earthly light.'

This seems to refer to the early tradition that our Blessed Lord was never seen to smile. The gay hope, the vast field of uncertain possibilities, so dear to our youthful imagination, could never be His,

'For He by trial knew

How cold and bare what mortals dream,

To realms where all is true.'

Then, if our youthful glee is to be dimmed by sorrow and disappointment, dullness or weariness,

'Grudge not thou the anguish keen
That makes thee like thy Lord;
And learn to quit with eye serene
Thy youth's ideal hoard.'

Even if misfortune and affliction beset us, and our chosen happiness be denied, we need not over lament missing the joy 'that Christ disdained to know.' Life is not over, and joy will come out of sadness, hope brighten on us like the moon in the twilight, and

Thus souls by nature pitched too high,

By suffering plunged too low,
Meet in the Church's middle sky,
Half-way 'twixt joy and woe;

To practise there the soothing lay
That sorrow best relieves;
Thankful for all God takes away,
Humbled by all He gives.'

Most true is this picture of the truly lowly, to whom his best deeds, and the highest honours they win, are but fresh causes of humility.

And the middle tracks of life were surely still bestrewn with flowers when the bright summons was given—

Vicar of Hursley did love the garland day! The Hampshire children are wont to sing, or rather whisper, out a dull little croon consisting of