And feel'st thou not the cold and silent awe
That emanates from his immortal presence
O'er all the breathless temple?

Dar'st thou see

The terrible brightness of the wrath that burns
On his arch'd brow? Lo, how the indignation
Swells in each strong dilated limb! his stature
Grows loftier; and the roof, the quaking pavement,
The shadowy pillars, all the temple feels
The offended God! I dare not look again,
Dar'st thou ?

Ha! look again, then,

There in the East. Mark how the purple clouds
Throng to pavilion him: the officious winds

Pant forth to purify his azure path

From night's dun vapors and fast-scattering mists.
The glad earth wakes in adoration; all
The voices of all animate things lift up
Tumultuous orisons; the spacious world
Lives but in him, that is its life. But he,
Disdainful of the universal homage,

Holds his calm way, and vindicates for his own
The illimitable heavens, in solitude

Of peerless glory unapproachable.

What means thy proud undazzled look, to adore
Or mock, ungracious?

Marg.

On yon burning orb

I gaze and say,-Thou mightiest work of Him

That launch'd thee forth, a golden-crowned bridegroom,

To hang thy everlasting nuptial lamp

In the exulting heavens. In thee the light,

Creation's eldest born, was tabernacled.

To thee was given to quicken slumbering nature,

And lead the seasons' slow vicissitude

Over the fertile breast of mother earth;

Till men began to stoop their grovelling prayers,
From the Almighty Sire of all, to thee.
And I will add,-Thou universal emblem,
Hung in the forehead of the all-seen heavens,
Of Him, that, with the light of righteousness,

Dawn'd on our latter days; the visitant day-spring
Of the benighted world. Enduring splendor!

Giant refresh'd! that ever more renew'st

Thy flaming strength; nor ever shalt thou cease
With time coeval, even till Time itself

Hath perish'd in eternity. Then thou

Shalt own, from thy apparent deity

Debased, thy mortal nature, from the sky

Withering before the all-enlightening Lamb,

Whose radiant throne shall quench all other fires.
Call. And yet she stands unblasted! In thy mercy

Thou dost remember all my faithful vows,
Hyperion! and suspend the fiery shaft
That quivers on thy string. Ah, not on her,
This innocent, wreak thy fury! I will search,
And thou wilt lend me light, although they shroud
In deepest Orcus. I will pluck them forth,
And set them up a mark for all thy wrath;
Those that beguiled to this unholy madness

My pure and blameless child. Shine forth, shine forth,
Apollo, and we'll have our full revenge!

Marg. 'Tis over now-and oh, I bless thee, Lord,
For making me thus desolate below;

For severing one by one the ties that bind me

To this cold world-for whither can earth's outcasts
Fly but to heaven?

Yet is no way but this,

None but to steep my father's lingering days
In bitterness? Thou knowest, gracious Lord
Of mercy, how he loves me, how he loved me
From the first moment that my eyes were open'd
Upon the light of day and him. At least,
If thou must smite him, smite him in thy mercy.
He loves me as the life-blood of his heart;
His love surpasses every love but thine.

[Exit.

From the Martyr of Antioch.

THE NATIVITY.

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 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 heavens were not commanded to prepare

A gorgeous canopy of golden air;

Nor stoop'd their lamps the enthroned fires on high;
A single silent star

Came wandering 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 every 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 heaven 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 haste 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 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 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.

632

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.

And when the Lord shall summon us,
Whom thou hast left behind,

May we, untainted by the world,

As sure a welcome find;

May each, like thee, depart in peace,

To be a glorious guest,

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

REV. GEORGE CROLY.

REV. GEORGE CROLY was born in Ireland toward the close of the last century, and was educated in Trinity College, Dublin, where he took his regular master's degree, and was ordained "deacon and priest" in Ireland. After this he went to England to settle, and was recommended by Lord Brougham (though differing much from him in public views) to the living of St. Stephen's church, Walbrook, London, where he still continues, discharging his duties with assiduity, and with a true zeal for the cause of the truth and the gospel. He is an independent thinker and writer, and prefers freedom of thought and speech to preferment in "the church."

Few authors of the nineteenth century, who have written so much, have written so well as Dr. Croly. His prose style is clear, rich, idiomatic, and at times eloquent; while as a poet he has many great and shining qualities-" a rich command of language, whether for the tender or the serious, an ear finely attuned to musical expression, a fertile and lucid conceptive power, and an intellect at once subtle and masculine. Hundreds of copies of verses from his indefatigable pen, some of them of surpassing excellence, lie scattered about-rich bouquets of unowned flowers-throughout the wide, unbounded fields of periodical literature."1

The following, I believe, is a full list of Dr. Croly's works. While they are so highly creditable to the learning and talents of their author, they give evidence of an astonishing industry that could accomplish so much, independent of his parochial duties. THEOLOGICAL: "Divine Providence, or Three Cycles of Revelation;" "A New Interpretation of the Apocalypse;" "The True Idea of Baptism;" "Sermons Preached at St. Stephen's, Walbrook;" "Sermons on Important Subjects;" "Speeches on the Papal Aggression;" pamphlets on " Marriage with a Deceased Wife's Sister," and on the "Proposed admission of Jews into Parliament." POLITICAL and MISCELLANEOUS: "The Political Life of Edmund Burke;" "The Personal History of George IV.;" "Historical Essays on Luther, &c.;" "Salathiel," (the Wandering Jew,) 3 vols.; "Marston, or the Soldier and Statesman," 3 vols.; "Character of Curran's Eloquence and Politics." POETICAL: "Paris in 1815, and other Poems;" "Catiline, a Tragedy, with other Poems;" "The Angel of the World," an Arabian, and "Sebastian," a Spanish tale; "Poems Illustrative of Gems from the Antique;" "Scenes from Scripture," and a vast body of miscellaneous poetry scattered through the periodical literature of the day.

CONDORCET.

Condorcet had outlived the Brissotines, but he was not forgotten by the bolder traitors. In 1793 he was pursued by the general vengeance that swept the ranks of French faction, in the shape of Robespierre; himself to fill an abhorred grave the moment his task was done. The wretched ex-noble was hidden in Paris for nine months, a period of protracted terror, much worse than the brief pang of the scaffold. At length he fled to the country, in the hope of finding refuge in the house of a friend at Montrouge. This friend happened to be absent, and the fugitive, dreading to discover himself to the neighborhood, wandered into the adjoining thickets, where he lay for two nights, perishing of cold and hunger. At length, compelled by intolerable suffering, he ventured to apply for food at the door of a little inn; there he was recognised as the delinquent named in the decree of arrest, seized and thrown into the village dungeon, to be conveyed next day to Paris. Next morning he was found lying on the floor, dead. As he continually carried poison about him, he was supposed to have died by his own hand! Thus miserably perished, in the vigor of life and understanding, (for he was but fifty-one,) a man of the most accomplished intellect, and possessing every advantage of rank, fortune, and fame. But he wanted a higher advantage still, honesty of heart. He had sacrificed loyalty to popular applause, personal honor to ambition, and the force, grandeur, and truth of religious principle, to the vanity of being the most dexterous scoffer in the halls of infidelity. Grafting irreligion on personal profligacy, and rebellion on both, his death was the natural produce. Living an atheist and a traitor, he consistently finished his course in despair and suicide.