POETRY.

RELIGIO ACADEMICI—I.

WHAT, you have found Hint not in the world-wide dome of St. Peter's,

Not on the cross-crowned height, not in the Catacombs' cell ? Not in Ravenna mosaic, or air-built glory of Milan ?

Not in the sun-flushed Alp, rose of the morning, afar ?

" Ah ! not there ! Then eastward ! Away, where mystery lingers, Far over ancient waves on to the home of the sun ! Borne upon ardent feet with the eager heart of the pilgrim, There to the garden of God, there to the cradle of all ! Surely, He must be there. On high, lo ! Sinai thunders Lonely and awful, bare save for the cloud on its brow.

Surely I there must find Him ; His voice shall speak, and His footprints Start from the furrowy rock, shine on the billowy sand.

Still not there! still hidden ! nor where with dearer devotion Memory tracks the scene Saints and Apostles have trod ; Not on Jerusalem's heights, nor where Gethsemane slumbers, Shadowy, mystic, pale, lit with the Passover moon.

Vain, all vain ! I found not. A dream He floated before me, Nearer by night ; with dawn, ghostly He faded away.

Gone ! and to worldly eyes in the shrine of His earthly abiding Galilee was but a lake ; Nazareth only a name.

Only a name ! and nothing availed it to waken the echoes, There where the Holiest dwelt, reading the story divine. Beauty may linger still on the snow-capped summit of Hermon, Beauty, a life-giving stream, creep over valley and plain ; Beauty may shine in the lily, or blush in the dark oleander ; Bethlehem maids go by smiling and sweet as of yore ; But the old faith was gone : the sky hung brazen above me, Empty and blank : hope dead : Deity gone from it all.

Gone as a vision of delight when a dreamer wakes, or a phantom Seen in the clouds, our own image reflected afar.

Gone ; nothing left but beauty ! in Dresden Gallery roaming Still may I stand, still gaze rapt on Madonna and Child: Still with the wondering crowd in the gorgeous Vatican chamber

Draw a deep breath, as I watch Christ, the transfigured, on

high : Still in the spiritual world, in the clondland region of fancy, Joy, as I see great shapes, ghosts of the Future, go by : Still with an open heart, in the grand Pantheon of Nature, Hymn the great mystery, kneel as to a Goddess supreme : Still, with Beethoven, thrill as the storm-tost passion of music Sinks like a wildered dove to a Nirvana of rest : Nothing remains but beauty." He said, and wearily sighing, Sate upon Shotover stile, gazing on Oxford below, Minaret-crowned St. Mary's, and Magdalen Tower, and Merton, Far-off jewels of light, fringed with a circle of shade, Set in the shining floods. Oh! not alone in the sunshine Fair ! yet fairer the faith, glory of men who believed, Mother of noble works, which built them there in the foretime, Dreaming of God ; then woke, strong to a labour divine. Ah, what a vision was there ! But then a vapour ascending Rose over turret and spire, crept over College and Hall, Death-white, all-enfolding. As when from marshy Maremna, Rises a poisonous breath, ghastly—inhale it, and die!

" Look ! that is me." He whispered, "I had it once, I ant certain, Once I had faith. But now ! Now there is mist over all."

"B.," Oxman.