the "Dies iræ," with the optional reservation of the latter portion of the line, consisting of seven syllables, for an intermitted cadence resembling the parœmiac of the Greek anapæstic system, as in the "Stabat Mater." Besides the happy addition of rhyme, these rhythmical trochaics possess this superiority over those constructed on the Grecian model, that, losing at the same time a great deal of its monotony, they adapt themselves more readily to every emotion of the mind, by elevating or lowering the intensity of the arsis, though the character of the thought may be contemplative, sorrowful, or jubilant by turns. Severely addicted, as I must be supposed to be, to versification of the stricter and more classical order, I must confess my sympathy with those who take extreme delight in the sacred Latin poetry of the Middle Ages, in which that language seems for the first time to have put forth its full power, and, in wholly discarding imitation, to have become inimitable itself. Theologically such compositions are entirely unobjectionable; for the finest examples, like Damiani's Hymn, are as uniformly evangelical, and as purely scriptural, as the readers of the pious effusions of Watts, or Wesley, or John Newton, of which we are here so perpetually reminded, could themselves desire. They have little in common with the Church of Rome. They reflect none of her manifold corruptions; and she has done what she could to diminish their surpassing purity and power.
The trochaic is deservedly what Mr. Hallam calls it,—"the favourite of all nations." It is the rhythm which constitutes in general, the power of prose and verse alike; accommodating itself, as it does, to that instinctive elevation of the voice which Professor Masson rightly judges to be the expression of passion in either case, and in the language of ordinary life. Our Bible and Prayer-book supply abundant illustrations of this remark. The Professor instances David's lamentation
