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But how must the religious and the moral dislike the one, though they venerate the other! The kindness of the worldly Polite only lives its little hour in one's presence; but that of the Benevolent retains its life and sweetness in one's absence. The worldly polite will often make the objects of their greatest flatteries and attentions, when present, the butt of their ridicule as soon as they see them no more; while the benevolent hold the characters and qualities of their associates in a sort of holy keeping at all times, and are as indulgent to the absent as they were attentive to the present. The kindness of the worldly polite is the gay and pleasing flower worn in the bosom, as the ornament of a few hours; then suffered to fade, and thrown by, when it is wanted no longer: but that of the really benevolent is like the fresh-springing evergreen, that blooms on through all times, and all seasons, unfading in beauty, and undiminished in sweetness.

HENRY HART MILMAN, 1791

HENRY HART MILMAN is the son of an eminent physician, Sir Francis Milman, and was born in the year 1791. He passed through his university education at Brazen-nose College, Oxford, with distinguished honors, and first appeared as an author in 1816, when his tragedy of "Fazio" was published. This was followed, in 1818, by "Samor, Lord of the Bright City, a Heroic Poem." To this succeeded four dramatic poems-" The Fall of Jerusalem," "The Martyr of Antioch," "Belshazzar," and "Anne Boleyn." To our prose literature he has contributed a well-written "History of the Jews," in three volumes, and an edition of " Gibbon's Rome," with notes and corrections.

Mr. Milman is distinguished as an elegant classical scholar, and held the office of Professor of Poetry in the university. His fine taste, chaste imagination, and varied attainments, are seen in all his dramatic works, the best of which are "The Fall of Jerusalem" and the "Martyr of Antioch;" while some of his lyrical pieces are remarkable for beauty, tenderness, and sublimity.

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. There bright and sumptuous palaces,
With cool and verdant gardens interspersed ;

There 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 porticos,
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.

HYMN OF THE CAPTIVE JEWS.

God of the thunder! from whose cloudy seat
The fiery winds of desolation flow:
Father of vengeance! that with purple feet,
Like a full wine-press, tread'st the world below:
The embattled armies wait thy sign to slay,
Nor springs the beast of havoc on his prey,
Nor withering Famine walks his blasted way,
Till thou the guilty land hast sealed for woe.

God of the rainbow! at whose gracious sign
The billows of the proud their rage suppress;
Father of mercies! at one word of thine

An Eden blooms in the waste wilderness!
And fountains sparkle in the arid sands,
And timbrels ring in maidens' glancing hands,
And marble cities crown the laughing lands,
And pillared temples rise thy name to bless.
O'er Judah's land thy thunders broke, O Lord!
The chariots rattled o'er her sunken gate;

Her sons were wasted by the Assyrian sword,
Even her foes wept to see her fallen state;
And heaps her ivory palaces became;
Her princes wore the captive's garb of shame,
Her temple sank amid the smouldering flame,
For thou didst ride the tempest-cloud of fate.

O'er Judah's land thy rainbow, Lord, shall beam,
And the sad city lift her crownless head;
And songs shall wake, and dancing footsteps gleam,
Where broods o'er fallen streets the silence of the dead.
The sun shall shine on Salem's gilded towers,

On Carmel's side our maidens cull the flowers,
To deck, at blushing eve, their bridal bowers,
And angel-feet the glittering Sion tread.

Thy vengeance gave us to the stranger's hand,
And Abraham's children were led forth for slaves;
With fettered steps we left our pleasant land,

Envying our fathers in their peaceful graves.
The stranger's bread with bitter tears we steep,
And when our weary eyes should sink to sleep,
'Neath the mute midnight we steal forth to weep,
Where the pale willows shade Euphrates' waves.
The born in sorrow shall bring forth in joy;

Thy mercy, Lord, shall lead thy children home;
He that went forth a tender yearling boy,

Yet, ere he die, to Salem's streets shall come. And Canaan's vines for us their fruits shall bear, And Hermon's bees their honeyed stores prepare; And we shall kneel again in thankful prayer,

Where, o'er the cherub-seated God, full blazed the irradiate dome.

THE NATIVITY.

Thou wast born of woman; thou didst come,

O Holiest to this world of sin and gloom,

Not in thy dread omnipotent array;

And not by thunders strew'd

Was thy tempestuous road;

Nor indignation burnt before thee on thy way.

But thee, a soft and naked child,

Thy mother, undefiled,

In the rude manger laid to rest

From off her virgin breast.

The heav'ns were not commanded to prepare

A gorgeous canopy of golden air;

Nor stoop'd their lamps th' enthroned fires on high;

A single silent star

Came wand'ring from afar,

Gliding uncheck'd and calm along the liquid sky;
The Eastern Sages leading on,

As at a kingly throne,

To lay their gold and odors sweet

Before thy infant feet.

The earth and ocean were not hush'd to hear

Bright harmony from ev'ry starry sphere;

Nor at thy presence brake the voice of song
From all the cherub choirs,

And seraph's burning lyres

Pour'd through the host of heav'n the charmed clouds along: One angel troop the strain began,

Of all the race of man,

By simple shepherds heard alone,

That soft Hosanna's tone.

And when thou didst depart, no car of flame

To bear thee hence in lambent radiance came;

Nor visible angels mourn'd with drooping plumes:
Nor didst thou mount on high

From fatal Calvary

With all thine own redeem'd outbursting from their tombs. For thou didst bear away from earth

But one of human birth,

The dying felon by thy side, to be

In Paradise with thee.

Nor o'er thy cross the clouds of vengeance break,

A little while the conscious earth did shake

At that foul deed by her fierce children done;

A few dim hours of day

The world in darkness lay,

Then bask'd in bright repose beneath the cloudless sun:

While thou didst sleep beneath the tomb,

Consenting to thy doom,

Ere yet the white-robed Angel shone

Upon the sealed stone.

And when thou didst arise, thou didst not stand

With devastation in thy red right hand,

Plaguing the guilty city's murtherous crew;

But thou didst baste to meet

Thy mother's coming feet,

And bear the words of peace unto the faithful few:

Then calmly, slowly didst thou rise

Into thy native skies,

Thy human form dissolved on high
In its own radiancy.

THE BURIAL ANTHEM.

Brother, thou art gone before us,
And thy saintly soul is flown

Where tears are wiped from every eye,
And sorrow is unknown.

From the burthen of the flesh,

And from care and fear releas'd,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

The toilsome way thou'st travell'd o'er,
And borne the heavy load,

But Christ hath taught thy languid feet
To reach his blest abode;

Thou 'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus
Upon his father's breast,

Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

Sin can never taint thee now,

Nor doubt thy faith assail,

Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ

And the Holy Spirit fail:

And there thou 'rt sure to meet the good,
Whom on earth thou lovedst best,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

"Earth to earth," and "dust to dust,"
The solemn priest hath said,
So we lay the turf above thee now,
And we seal thy narrow bed:

But thy spirit, brother, soars away

Among the faithful blest,

Where the wicked cease from troubling,

And the weary are at rest.

SPEECH OF ANNE BOLEYN ON HER ENTRANCE INTO THE TOWER.

Kingston (to the guard).—Advance your halberds.

Queen.-Oh, sir! pause-one look,

One last long look, to satiate all my senses.
Oh! thou blue cloudless canopy, just tinged
With the faint amber of the setting sun,
Where one by one steal forth the modest stars
To diadem the sky; thou noble river,
Whose quiet ebb, not like my fortune, sinks
With gentle downfall, and around the keels
Of those thy myriad barks mak'st passing music;

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