lation of Philosophy" is partly in prose, partly in verse. The
prose is generally strong, clear, and comparatively pure in style,
wonderfully superior to the vapid diffusiveness of Cassiodorus and most
writers of the age. The interspersed poems are sometimes in hexameters,
but more often in the shorter lines and more varied metres of Horace,
and are to some extent founded upon the tragic choruses of Seneca. It is
of course impossible in this place to give any adequate account of so
important a work and one of such far-reaching influence as the
"Consolation" but the following translation of one of the poems in which
the prisoner makes his moan to the Almighty may give the reader some
little idea of the style and matter of the treatise.

THE HARMONY OF THE NATURAL WORLD: THE DISCORD OF THE MORAL WORLD.

Oh Thou who hast made this starry Whole,
Who hast fixed on high Thy throne;
Who biddest the Blue above us roll,
And whose sway the planets own!

At Thy bidding she turns, the changing Moon
To her Brother her full-fed fire,
Dimming the Stars with her light, which soon
Wanes, as she draws to him nigher.

Thou givest the word, and the westering Star,
The Hesper who watched o'er Night's upspringing,
Changing his course, shines eastward far,
Phosphor now, for the Sun's inbringing.

When the leaves fall fast, 'neath Autumn's blast,
Thou shortenest the reign of light.
In radiant June Thou scatterest soon
The fast-flown hours of night.

The leaves which fled from the cruel North
Are with Zephyr's breath returning,
And from seeds which the Bear saw dropped in earth
Springs the corn for the Dog-star's burning.

Thus all stands fast by Thine old decree,
Nothing wavers in Nature's plan:
In all her changes she bows to Thee:
Yea, all stands fast but Man.

Oh! why is the wheel of Fortune rolled,
While guilt Thy vengeance shuns?
Why sit the bad on their thrones of gold,
And trample Thine holy ones?

Why doth Virtue skulk where none may see
In the great world's corners dim?
And the just man mark the knave go free,
While the penalty falls on him?

No storm the perjurer's soul o'erwhelms,
Serene the false one stands:
He flatters, and Kings of mighty realms
Are as clay in his moulding hands.

Oh Ruler! look on these lives of ours,
Th