Abide with me when night is nigh, For without Thee I dare not die."* As a beautiful instance of the manner in which the poet brings his varied lore all in unison to bear upon and illustrate that religion which formed ever the one grand central theme of his inspiration, we would cite in this connection the two opening stanzas of another hymn or poem, where the classical and the scriptural elements interblend in exquisite harmony: "Father to me thou art, and mother dear, Ere from her last embrace her hero part ;- We own the Crucified in weal or woe. "Strange to our ears the church bells of our home, May be forgotten; and the time may come When the babe's kiss no sense of pleasure yields How inexpressible the charm that breathes, like sweet sad music, in the holy tenderness and grace of these lines! Such are some of the characteristics of Keble's poetry as must strike and fascinate every reader of taste, feeling, and piety, to whatever school of religious opinion he may belong; nay, there is much here that even the mere lover of poetry must perforce admire. The peculiar notes which distinctively mark his poetry as the exposition of a certain class of religious tenets, the badge of a sect or party-those notes, viewed with special reference to that memorable movement in which he played so prominent a part, would afford abundant matter for further consideration. This question, however, the ecclesiastical one, of grave interest though it be, it is not our intention here to enter into, as we love not the thorny paths of controversy, to which the consideration of such a question would inevitably lead. Not thus would we take leave of our poet and his strains-strains whose "loved cadence echoing haunts the "enchanted ear: "Even as the close of some grave melody, Hovering and lingering in the moon's still ray."+ Cf. Faber's "Hymns."—"The Length of Death: A land terrible and dry: If Thou, sweet Saviour, hadst not died, "Lyra Innocentium." Not thus, truly, would we part. Fain rather would we think of him with ever grateful remembrance as the sweet singer, "the author of The Christian Year,' the one thing' which he did; which, with all its faults, he did so well; which has been so long accepted with gratitude for its true poetic genius, and its true religious sentiment; which has brought music into many hearts, light into many minds, and guidance into many lives; and which has set the name of John Keble on a high and sacred eminence among the names which the people of the land and the Church he loved so truly will not willingly let die."* We shall cite, in conclusion, from the "Lyra Apostolica," a poem of rare beauty and pathos, written by Keble on occasion, we believe, of the death of his early friend, Hurrell Froude ;† a poem which might with equal if not greater propriety be conceived to have been the heart-breathed utterance of some sorrowing friend on occasion of the poet's own death : "I thought to meet no more, so dreary seemed Beyond where I could soar; "Friend of this worthless heart! but happier thoughts Where patiently thou tak'st Thy sweet and sure repose. "The shadows fall more soothing: the soft air Lives o'er thy funeral day ; "The deep knell dying down, the mourners pause, Thy spirit met us there, "And sought with us along the accustomed way So dear to faith and hope. "O! hadst thou brought a strain from paradise *British and Foreign Evangelical Review (October, 1867), Art. IV.— "John Keble." "The exquisitely beautiful lines in the Lyra Apostolica' (No. 4) on the Burial of the Dead,' worthy to be placed beside the noblest portions of the Christian Year,' were written on the death of his beloved sister Mary Anne."-The Contemporary Review, June, 1869.-"The Life of Keble." The sacred springs of grief More tenderly and true, "Than those deep-warbled anthems, high and low, Low as the grave, high as th' eternal throne, Guiding through light and gloom Our mourning fancies wild, "Till gently, like soft golden clouds at eve Around the western twilight, all subside Into a placid faith, That even with beaming eye "Counts thy sad honours-coffin, bier, and pall; So many relics of a frail love lost, So many tokens dear Of endless love begun. "Listen! it is no dream: th' apostle's trump Gives earnest of th' Archangel's;-calmly now Our hearts yet beating high To that victorious lay; "Most like a warrior's to the martial dirge Of a true comrade, in the grave we trust Our treasure for a while: And if a tear steal down, "If human anguish o'er the shaded brow Pass shuddering, when the handful of pure earth Touches the coffin lid; If at our brother's name "Once and again the thought, 'for ever gone,' Come o'er us like a cloud; yet, gentle spright, Thou turnest not away, Thou knowest us calm at heart. "One look, and we have seen our last of thee, Till we too sleep, and our long sleep be o'er ; O cleanse us, ere we view That countenance pure again, "Thou who canst change the heart and raise the dead, As Thou art by to soothe our parting hour, Be ready when we meet With Thy dear pardoning words.” B. C. H. 66 The Reviewer. Iphigene. By ALexander LandER. London: Hodder & Stoughton. WHAT a might of vitality is there in old Homeric and Bible stories! To each of these sources the plot of this poem is fairly traceable. The brief, graphic, simple narrative of Jephthah's daughter has won by its beauty not a little note; and the fable of Iphigenia" is one of the most famous in the Trojan cycle. The legend itself is post-Homeric in its most tragic incidents-those which the genius of Euripides has invested with such impressive gloom and such intense dramatic interest. Nearly two centuries ago Racine gave the story a lasting place in the classic drama of France, and nearly eighty years have elapsed since Goethe embellished it with his poetic art and skilful power. Nor has the subject failed to attract the splendid pen of Tennyson. To be greatly daring is itself a poetic qualification, and in this at least we may acknowledge that Alexander Lander has not hesitated to bend the bow of Apollo, and deserves the credit due to a lofty aim_and a strong effort-as any one will admit who knows what has been done in the shape of achievement already, and culls the simple yet striking incidents of the original story. Who does not remember that Agamemnon, to propitiate the favour of the gods, vowed to offer up the most beautiful of all that should be born in his kingdom, and that, though horror-struck to find that the lot fell on his own daughter Iphigenia, yet he was forced by the priests to "perform his vow.' The story of Jephthah is the older, and surrounded as it is by early association with Hebrew memories, presents yet more of pathos than the tale of classic lore. Mr. Lander has chosen the Bible version as more congenial to modern thought, and, from the few bare incidents there recorded, has wrought out a sweet little poem, in which glowing descriptions of Eastern scenery and vivid portraiture of tribal life in the early days of the Hebrew theocracy abound. It should be noted that the author has no misgivings as to the truth of the pictures presented in the book of Judges. Jephthah and his daughter are real, living personages to him. The dwelling of the son of Gilead, the exile of Mizpeh, is thus described : "The hoary walls of Job outvie, The clouds that fleck the azure sky; Great porphyry boulders guard the way, To him in his mountain home in utter helplessness, but burning for vengeance, hie those who were once his persecutors, to entreat his aid against the common foe. There is a rugged grandeur about the scene which stamps the writer a man of vivid conception, and makes the incidents related stand out in bold relief. Like some of Flaxman's models, it were to be wished, often, that more pains had been taken with the finish; but it is thus surrounded and besought by seer and priest, that he at length consents to be their leader against the conquering Ammonites. "How grand to see a mighty soul Thrilling with energy of fire A weary nation's dead desire; When the great King of kings draws nigh, Armies of angels passing by, And takes a human instrument, To wield and work his own intent." In the next canto the scene changes, and Iphigene, the heroine of the story, is introduced. There is much of quiet beauty in the following lines: "The evening's golden splendour shone A halo o'er the maiden's face; The light impatient to be gone, "A youth reclining at her side, Gazed on her lucent loveliness, Thus she addresses him:-: "Lo, Reuel! like a golden sky, |