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In urns and altars round,

A drear and dying sound

Affrights the Flamens' at their service quaint; And the chill marble seems to sweat,

While each peculiar power foregoes his wonted

seat.

Peor and Baälim

Forsake their temples dim,

With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine ;2 And mooned Ashtaroth,

Heaven's queen and mother both,

Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine;

The Libyac Hammon shrinks his horn ;

In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz

mourn.

And sullen Moloch fled,

Hath left in shadows dread

His burning idol all of blackest hue :

In vain with cymbals' ring

They call the grisly king,

In dismal dance about the furnace blue :

The brutish gods of Nile as fast,

Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.

Nor is Osiris seen

In Memphian grove or green,

Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud; Nor can he be at rest

Within his sacred chest ;

Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud; In vain with timbrell'd anthems dark

The sable-stolèd sorcerers bear his worshipp'd ark.

1 Priests,
3 See Ezek.

2 Dagon, 1 Sam. v.

He feels from Judah's land

The dreaded Infant's hand,

The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyne;1 Nor all the gods beside

Longer dare abide,

Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our Babe, to show his Godhead true,

Can in his swaddling bands control the damned

crew.

So, when the sun in bed,

Curtain'd with cloudy red,

Pillows his chin upon an orient2 wave,

The flocking shadows pale,

Troop to the infernal jail,

Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave;

And the yellow-skirted fays

Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved

maze.

But see, the Virgin blest

Hath laid her Babe to rest;

Time is, our tedious song should here have ending: Heaven's youngest-teemèd star3

Hath fix'd her polish'd car,

Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending; And all about the courtly 4 stable

Bright-harness'd' angels sit in order serviceable.

1 Eyes.

2 Bright.

3 The star of the Magi.

4 Courtly, because there was the King there.

Clothed in bright armour.

THE OXFORD BOAT RACES.

THOMAS HUGHES, M.P.

PART I.

WHAT'S the time, Smith ?"

Half-past three, old fellow," answered

Diogenes, looking at his watch.

"I never knew a day go so slowly," said Tom ; "isn't it time to go down to the boats?”

"Not by two hours and more, old fellow-can't you take a book, or something to keep you quiet? You won't be fit for anything by six o'clock, if you go on worrying like this." And so Diogenes turned himself to his flute, and blew away to all appearances as composedly as if it had been the first week of term, though, if the truth must be told, it was all he could do not to get up and wander about in a feverish and distracted state, for Tom's restlessness infected him.

Diogenes's whole heart was in the College boat and so, though he had pulled dozens of races in his time, he was almost as nervous as a freshman on this the first day of the races. Tom, all unconscious of the secret discomposure of the other, threw himself into a chair and looked at him with wonder and envy. The flute went "toot, toot, toot," till he could stand it no longer; so he got up and went to the window, and, leaning out, looked up and down the street for some minutes in a purposeless sort of fashion, staring hard at everybody and every thing, but unconscious all the time that he was doing so. He would not have been able in fact to answer Diogenes a word, had that worthy inquired of him what he had seen, when he presently drew in his head and returned to his fidgety ramblings about the room.

"How hot the sun is! but there's a stiff breeze from

the south-east. I hope it will go down before the evening, don't you?"

"Yes, this wind will make it very rough below the Gut. Mind you feather high now at starting."

"I hope to goodness I shan't catch a crab," said Tom.

"Don't think about it, old fellow; that's your best plan."

"But I can't think of anything else," said Tom. "What is the good of telling a fellow not to think about it?"

Diogenes apparently had nothing particular to reply, for he put his flute to his mouth again; and at the sound of the "toot, toot," Tom caught up his gown, and fled away into the quadrangle.

The crew had had their early dinner of steaks and chops, stale bread, and a glass and a half of old beer apiece at two o'clock, in the Captain's rooms. The current theory of training at that time was-as much meat as you could eat, the more underdone the better, and the smallest amount of drink upon which you could manage to live. Two pints in the twenty-four hours was all that most boats' crews that pretended to train at all were allowed, and for the last fortnight it had been the nominal allowance of the St. Ambrose crew. The discomfort of such a diet in the hot summer months, when you were at the same time taking regular and violent exercise, was something very serious. Outraged human nature rebelled against it; and, I take it, though they did not admit it in public, there were very few men who did not rush to their water-bottles for relief, more or less often, according to the development of their bumps of conscientiousness and obstinacy. To keep to the diet at all strictly, involved a very respectable amount of physical endurance. I am thankful to hear that our successors have found out the unwisdom of this, as of other old superstitions, and that in order to get a man into training for a boat-race now-a-days, it is not thought of the first importance to keep him in

a constant state of consuming thirst, and the restlessness of body and sharpness of temper which thirst generally induces.

Tom appreciated the honour of being in the boat in his first year so keenly, that he had almost managed to keep to his training allowance, and consequently, now that the eventful day had arrived, was in a most uncomfortable state of body and disagreeable frame of mind.

He fled away from Diogenes's flute, but found no rest. He tried Drysdale. That hero was lying on his back on his sofa playing with his pet bull-dog Jack, and only increased Tom's thirst and soured his temper by the viciousness of his remarks on boating, and every thing and person connected there with; above all, on Miller, who had just come up, had steered them the day before, and pronounced the crew generally, and Drysdale in particular, "not half trained."

Blake's oak was sported, as usual. Tom looked in at the Captain's door, but found him hard at work reading, and so carried himself off; and, after a vain hunt after others of the crew, and even trying to sit down and read, first a novel, then a play of Shakespeare, with no success whatever, wandered away out of the college, and found himself in five minutes, by a natural and irresistible attraction, on the University barge.

There were half-a-dozen men or so reading the papers, and a group or two discussing the coming races. Amongst other things, the chances of St. Ambrose's making a bump the first night were weighed. Every one joined in praising the stroke, but there were great doubts whether the crew could live up to

it.

Tom carried himself on to the top of the barge to get out of hearing, for listening made his heart beat and his throat drier than ever. He stood on the top and looked right away down to the Gut, the strong wind blowing his gown about. Not even a pair oar was to be seen; the great event of the evening made

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