For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

George Gordon, Lord Byron : 1788-1824.

Lord Byron's work in poetry may best be described as splendid. But its splendour is often lurid or gloomy, for the poet's life was reckless and profligate, and his wealth of imagination and language was sometimes perverted to evil uses. Towards the close of his life Byron proved himself capable of a noble enthusiasm by his service in the struggle of the Greeks for independence.

THE THREE TABERNACLES.1

(Written in Richmond Churchyard, Yorkshire.)
METHINKS it is good to be here,

If Thou wilt, let us build.-but for whom?
Nor Elias nor Moses appear;

But the shadows of eve that encompass with gloom,
The abode of the dead, and the place of the tomb,

1 Matt, xvii. 4.

Shall we build to Ambition? Ah no! Affrighted, he shrinketh away;

For see, they would pin him below

To a small narrow cave; and, begirt with cold clay, To the meanest of reptiles a peer1 and a prey.

To Beauty? Ah no! she forgets The charms that she wielded before;

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, For the smoothness it held or the tint which it wore.

Shall we build to the purple of Pride, The trappings which dizen the proud?

Alas! they are all laid aside;

And here's neither dress nor adornment allow'd,
But the long winding-sheet, and the fringe of the shroud.

To Riches? Alas! 'tis in vain :

Who hid, in their turns have been hid;

The treasures are squander'd again;

And here, in the grave, are all metals forbid,

But the tinsel 2 that shone on the dark coffin lid.

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford,

The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?

Ah! here is a plentiful board!

But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,
And none but the worm is a reveller here.

Shall we build to Affection and Love? Ah no! they have wither'd and died,

Or fled with the spirit above

Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side,
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot grieve;
Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear,
Which Compassion itself could relieve:

Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, or fear;
Peace, peace, is the watchword, the only one here.

1 peer-equal or companion.

tinsel-glittering ornament.

Unto death, to whom Monarchs must bow? Ah! no for his empire is known,

And here there are trophies enow

.1

Beneath, the cold dead, and around, the dark stone Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown.

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise;

The second to Faith, which insures it fulfill'd ; And the third to the Lamb of the Great Sacrifice, Who bequeath'd us them both when He rose to the skies. Herbert Knowles: 1798-1817.

Knowles was a native of Canterbury. He wrote the above stanzas in his eighteenth year, and they were published in an article by Robert Southey in the Quarterly Review.

EVENING HYMN.

THE village-bells, with silver chime,
Come soften'd by the distant shore ;
Though I have heard them many a time,
They never rang so sweet before.
A silence rests upon the hill,

A listening awe pervades 2 the air;
The very flowers are shut and still,
And bow'd as if in prayer.

And in this hush'd and breathless close,
O'er earth and air and sky and sea,

A still low voice in silence goes,

Which speaks alone, great God, of Thee.
The whispering leaves, the far-off brook,
The linnet's warble fainter grown,
The hive-bound bee, the building rook,
All these their Maker own.

1 trophies-tokens of victory.

2 pervades-occupies all. All the air a solemn stillness holds.'

Gray.

Now nature sinks in soft repose,
A living semblance of the grave;
The dew steals noiseless on the rose,

The boughs have almost ceased to wave;
The silent sky, the sleeping earth,

Tree, mountain, stream, the humble sod,
All tell from whom they had their birth,
And cry, 'Behold a God!'

Thomas Miller: 1809-1874.

A self-taught genius, once a basket-maker, whose poems attracted the notice of Rogers, the poet-banker, by whom he was assisted to a position in life that enabled him to become the publisher of his own works. (See note on A Wish.)

VIRTUE.

SWEET Day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky,
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.

Sweet Rose, whose hue, angry and brave,1
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die.

Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted 2 lie,
My music shows ye have your closes,
And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,

Like seasoned timber, never gives ;3
But though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.

George Herbert: 1593-1632.

Herbert began life as a courtier, but ended it as a country parson. Most of his poetry is of the class we call didactic, because its professed purpose is to teach. Its quaintness of form makes it easy to remember.

1 angry and brave-red and beautiful.

2

gives-yields.

3 compacted-pressed together.

DEATH THE LEVELLER.

THE glories of our blood1 and state 2
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill:
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow;

Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon Death's purple altar now

See where the victor-victim bleeds:
Your heads must come

To the cold tomb;

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.

James Shirley: 1594-1666.

Shirley was a dramatic writer, the author of thirty-nine

play, most of which were successful.

The above verses are

taken from The Contention of Ajax and Ulysses.

THE LADDER OF SAINT AUGUSTINE.
SAINT AUGUSTINE! well hast thou said,
That of our vices we can frame

A ladder, if we will but tread

Beneath our feet each deed of shame!

1 blood-birth, i.e., lineal descent, 2 state-condition in life.