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Intenser light, as towards the right-hand host
Mild turning, with a look ineffable,

The invitation he proclaimed in accents

Which on their ravished ears poured thrilling, like
The silver sound of many trumpets heard
Afar in sweetest jubilee; then, swift
Stretching his dreadful sceptre to the left,
That shot forth horrid lightnings, in a voice
Clothed but in half its terrors, yet to them

Seemed like the crush of heaven, pronounced the doom.
The sentence uttered, as with life instinct,
The throne uprose majestically slow;

Each angel spread his wings; in one dread swell
Of triumph mingling as they mounted, trumpets,
And harps, and golden lyres, and timbrels sweet,
And many a strange and deep-toned instrument
Of heavenly minstrelsy unknown on earth,
And angels' voices, and the loud acclaim.
Of all the ransomed, like a thunder-shout.
Far through the skies melodious echoes rolled,
And faint hosannas distant climes returned.

Down from the lessening multitude came faint
And fainter still the trumpet's dying peal,
All else in distance lost; when, to receive
Their new inhabitants, the heavens unfolded.
Up gazing, then, with streaming eyes, a glimpse
The wicked caught of Paradise, whence streaks
Of splendor, golden quivering radiance shone,
As when the showery evening sun takes leave,
Breaking a moment o'er the illumined world.
Seen far within, fair forms moved graceful by,
Slow-turning to the light their snowy wings.
A deep-drawn, agonizing groan escaped
The hapless outcasts, when upon the Lord
The glowing portals closed. Undone, they stood
Wistfully gazing on the cold, gray heaven,
As if to catch, alas! a hope not there.

But shades began to gather; night approached

Murky and lowering: round with horror rolled
On one another, their despairing eyes

That glared with anguish starless, hopeless gloom
Fell on their souls, never to know an end.

Though in the far horizon lingered yet

A lurid gleam, black clouds were mustering there;
Red flashes, followed by low muttering sounds,
Announced the fiery tempest doomed to hurl
The fragments of the earth again to chaos.
Wild gusts swept by, upon whose hollow wing
Unearthly voices, yells, and ghastly peals
Of demon laughter came. Infernal shapes
Flitted along the sulphurous wreaths, or plunged
Their dark, impure abyss, as seafowl dive
Their watery element.-O'erwhelmed with sights
And sounds appalling, I awoke; and found
For gathering storms, and signs of coming wo,
The midnight moon gleaming upon my bed
Serene and peaceful. Gladly I surveyed her
Walking in brightness through the stars of heaven,
And blessed the respite ere the day of doom.


"TIS so-the hoary harper sings aright;

How beautiful is Zion!-Like a queen,
Armed with a helm, in virgin loveliness,
Her heaving bosom in a bossy cuiras,

She sits aloft, begirt with battlements

And bulwarks swelling from the rock, to guard
The sacred courts, pavilions, palaces,

Soft gleaming through the umbrage of the woods
Which tuft her summit, and, like raven tresses,
Waved their dark beauty round the tower of David.
Resplendent with a thousand golden bucklers,
The embrasures of alabaster shine;

Hailed by the pilgrims of the desert, bound
To Judah's mart with orient merchandise.

But not, for thou art fair and turret-crowned,
Wet with the choicest dew of heaven, and blessed
With golden fruits, and gales of frankincense,
Dwell I beneath thine ample curtains. Here,
Where saints and prophets teach, where the stern law
Still speaks in thunder, where chief angels watch,
And where the glory hovers, here I war.


Low warblings, now, and solitary harps,
Were heard among the angels, touched and tuned
As to an evening hymn, preluding soft
To cherub voices; louder as they swelled,
Deep strings struck in, and hoarser instruments,
Mixed with clear, silver sounds, till concord rose
Full as the harmony of winds to heaven;
Yet sweet as nature's springtide melodies
To some worn pilgrim, first with glistening eyes
Greeting his native valley, whence the sounds
Of rural gladness, herds, and bleating flocks,
The chirp of birds, blithe voices, lowing kine,
The dash of waters, reed, or rustic pipe,
Blent with the dulcet, distance-mellowed bell,
Come, like the echo of his early joys.
In every pause, from spirits in mid air,
Responsive still were golden viols heard,
And heavenly symphonies stole faintly down.


HENRY HART MILMAN was born in London on the 10th of February, 1791, and was the youngest son of Sir Francis Milman, physician to the king. In 1801 he was sent to Eton, and in 1810 he entered Brazen Nose College, Oxford, where he gained the first honors in examinations, and received many prizes for English and Latin poems and essays. In 1815 he became a fellow of his college, and two years afterwards entered into holy orders. The living of St. Mary's, in Reading, was bestowed upon him in 1817, and he devoted much of his attention to the duties of his profession, until he was elected Professor of Poetry at Oxford, in 1821. Mr. Milman commenced his course as a poet with the "Judicium Regale," in which the people of the different nations of Europe pronounce their judgment against Napoleon. This was followed by the tragedy of " Fazio,” and “ The Fall of Jerusalem." His "Martyr of Antioch," published in 1822, is an attempt to present in contrast the simple faith of Jesus and the most gorgeous, yet most natural of pagan superstitions, the worship of the sun. Besides his dramatic works, Mr. Milman is the author of "Samor, the Lord of the Bright City," an epic in twelve books; and a volume of minor poems, none of which are equal to passages in his tragedies. He now resides in London, and is prebendary of St. Peter's, and minister of St. Margaret's, Westminster.

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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 burden of the flesh,

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

The toilsome way thou'st travelled 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.

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FOR thou wert 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 strewed,

Was thy tempestuous road;

Nor indignation burned 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 heavens were not commanded to prepare
A gorgeous canopy of golden air!

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