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'And my soul from out that shadow that
lies floating on the floor,
Shall be lifted Nevermore."

counted; but the reiteration of the one glittering plumage, and his measured, dreary word " nevermore;" the effect melancholy croak. And the end closes produced by seating the solemn bird of as with the wings of night over the soryore upon the bust of Pallas; the man- row of the unfortunate, and these dark ner in which the fowl with its fiery eyes words conclude the tale:becomes the evil conscience or memory of the lonely widower; and the management of the time, the season, and the circumstances-all unite in making the Raven in its flesh and blood a far more The same shadow of unutterable wo terrific apparition than ever from the rests upon several of his smaller poems, shades made night hideous, while "re- and the effect is greatly enhanced by visiting the glimpses of the moon." The their gay and song-like rhythm. That poem belongs to a singular class of poetic madness or misery which sings out its uniques, each of which is itself enough terror or grief, is always the most desto make a reputation, such as Coleridge's perate. It is like a burden of hell set "Rime of the Anciente Marinere," or to an air of heaven. "Ulalume" might "Christabel,” and Aird's "Devil's Dream have been written by Coleridge during upon Mount Acksbeck"-poems in which the sad middle portion of his life. There some one new and generally dark idea is is a sense of dreariness and desolation as wrought out into a whole so strikingly of the last of earth's autumns, which complete and self-contained as to re- we find nowhere else in such perfection. semble creation, and in which thought, What a picture these words convey to imagery, language, and music combine the imagination:— to produce a similar effect, and are made to chime together like bells. What entireness of effect, for instance, is produced in the "Devil's Dream," by the unearthly theme, the strange title, the austere and terrible figures, the singular verse, and the knotty and contorted language; and in the "Rime of the Anciente Marinere," by the ghastly form of the narrator-the wild rhythm, the new mythology, and These to many will appear only words; the exotic diction of the tale he tells! but what wondrous words. What a spell So Poe's "Raven" has the unity of a they wield! Like a wasted haggard face, tree blasted, trunk, and twigs, and root, they have no bloom or beauty; but what by a flash of lightning. Never did a tale they tell! Weir-Auber-where melancholy more thoroughly "mark for are they? They exist not, except in the its own" any poem than this. All is in writer's imagination, and in yours, for intense keeping. Short as the poem is, the instant they are uttered, a misty it has a beginning, middle, and end. Its picture, with a tarn, dark as a murcommencement how abrupt and striking derer's eye, below, and the last thin, -the time a December midnight-the yellow leaves of October fluttering above poet a solitary man, sitting, "weak and -exponents both of a misery which weary," poring in helpless fixity, but scorns the name of sorrow, and knows with no profit or pleasure, over a black-neither limit nor termination-is hung letter volume; the fire half expired, and up in the chamber of your soul for ever. the dying embers haunted by their own What power, too, there is in the "Hauntghosts, and shivering above the hearth! ed Palace," particularly in the last words, The middle is attained, when the raven "they laugh, but smile no more!" Dante mounts the bust of Pallas, and is fasci- has nothing superior in all those chilly nating the solitary wretch by his black, yet fervent words of his, where "the

"The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were withering and sere,
The leaves they were crisp'd and sere-
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year.

It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid-region of Weir-
It was down by the dark tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."

ground burns frore and cold performs the effect of fire."

We must now close our sketch of Poe; and we do so with feelings of wonder, pity, and awful sorrow, tempted to look up to heaven, and to cry, Lord, why didst thou make this man in vain?" Yet perhaps there was even in him some latent spark of goodness, which may even

now be developing itself under a kindlier sky. He has gone far away from the misty mid-region of Weir; his dreams of cosmogonies have been tested by the searching light of Eternity's truth; his errors have received the reward that was meet; and we cannot but say, ere we close, Peace even to the well-nigh putrid dust of Edgar Poe.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

In

SOME ten years ago, the inhabitants of a sented themselves, who seemed rather large city in the north of Scotland were anxious to catch a little eclat from him, apprised, by handbills, that James Mont- than to delight to do him honour. The gomery, Esq., of Sheffield, the poet, was evening was rather advanced ere he rose to address a meeting on the subject of to speak. His appearance, so far as we Moravian Missions. This announcement, could catch it, was quite in keeping with in the language of Dr Caius, "did bring the spiritual cast of his poetry. He was de water into our mouth." The thought tall, thin, bald, with face of sharp outline, of seeing a live poet, of European repu- but mild expression; and we looked with tation, arriving at our very door, in a re- no little reverence on the eye which had mote corner, was absolutely electrifying. shot fire into the "Pelican Island,” and on We went early to the chapel where he the hand (skinny enough, we ween) which was announced to speak, and, ere the lion had written "The Grave." He spoke in of the evening appeared, amused ourselves a low voice, sinking occasionally into an with watching and analysing the audience inaudible whisper; but his action was enwhich his celebrity had collected. It was ergetic, and his pantomime striking. not very numerous, nor very select. Few the course of his speech, he alluded, with of the grandees of the city had conde- considerable effect, to the early heroic scended to honour him by their presence. struggles of Moravianism, when she was Stranger still, there was but a sparse sup- yet alone in the death-grapple with the ply of clergy, or of the prominent religion-powers of heathen darkness, and closed ists of the town. The church was chiefly (when did he ever close a speech otherfilled with females of a certain age, one wise?) by quoting a few vigorous verses or two stray "hero worshippers" like our- from himself. selves, a few young ladies who had read We left the meeting, we remember, some of his minor poems, and whose eyes with two wondering questions in our ears: seemed lighted up with a gentle fire of first, Is this fame? of what value reputapleasure in the prospect of seeing the tion, which in a city of seventy thousand author of those "beautiful verses on the inhabitants is so freezingly acknowledget? Grave and Prayer," and two or three Would not any empty, mouthing charwho had come from ten miles off to see latan, any "twopenny tear-mouth," any and hear the celebrated poet. When he painted, stupid savage, any clever juggler, at length appeared, we continued to marvel any dexterous player upon the fiery harpat the aspect of the platform. Instead of strings of the popular passions, have enbeing supported by the élite of the city, joyed a better reception than this true, instead of forming a rallying centre of at- tender, and holy poet? But, secondly, traction and unity to all who had a sym- Is not this true, tender, and holy poet pathy with piety or with genius for leagues partly himself to blame? Has he not round it, a few obscure individuals pre-put himself in a false position? Has he

not too readily lent himself as an instru- standing a hymn simply to mean a short ment of popular excitement? Is this religious effusion) in the language. He progress of his altogether a proper, a catches the transient emotions of the pious poet's progress? Would Milton, or Cow- heart, which arise in the calm evening per, or Wordsworth have submitted to it? walk, where the saint, like Isaac, goes out And is it in good taste for him to eke out into the fields to meditate; or under the his orations by long extracts from his own still and star-fretted midnight; or on his poems? Homer, it is true, sang his own "own delightful bed;" or in pensive converses; but he did it for food. Mont- templations of the "Common Lot;" or gomery recites them; but it is for fame. under the Swiss heaven, where evening We pass now gladly as we did in hardly closes the eye of Mont Blanc, and thought then-from the progress to the stirs Lake Leman's waters with a murpoet-pilgrim himself. We have long ad-mur like a sleeper's prayer: wherever, in mired and loved James Montgomery, and short, piety kindles into the poetic feelwe wept under his spell ere we did either ing, such emotions he catches, refines, and the one or the other. We will not soon embalms in his snatches of lyric song. forget the Sabbath evening-it was in As Wordsworth has expressed sentiments golden summer tide-when we first heard which the "solitary lover of nature was his "Grave" repeated, and wept as we unable to utter, save with glistening eye heard it. It seemed to come, as it pro- and faltering tongue," so Montgomery has fessed to come, from the grave itself a given poetic form and words to breathings still small voice of comfort and of hope and pantings of the Christian's spirit, even from that stern abyss. It was a fine which himself never suspected to be and bold idea to turn the great enemy poetical at all, till he saw them reflected into a comforter, and elicit such a reply, in verse. He has caught and crystallised so tender and submissive, to the challenge, "O grave, where is thy victory?" Triumphing in prospect over the Sun himself, the grave proclaims the superiority and immunity of the soul

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The Sun is but a spark of fire,
A transient meteor in the sky;
But thou, immortal as his Sire,
Shalt never die."

the tear dropping from the penitent's eye; he has echoed the burden of the heart, sighing with gratitude to Heaven; he has arrested and fixed in melody the "upward glancing of an eye, when none but God is near."

In his verse and in Cowper's, the poetry of ages of devotion has broken silence, and spoken out. Religion, the most poetical of all things, had, for a long season, been divorced from song, or had Surely no well in the wilderness ever mistaken pert jingle, impudent familiasparkled out to the thirsty traveller a rity, and doggerel, for its genuine voice. voice more musical, more tender, and It was reserved for the bards of Olney and more cheering, than this which Mont-Sheffield to renew and to strengthen the gomery educes from the jaws of the nar- lawful and holy wedlock. row house. Soon afterwards we became Montgomery, then, is a religious lyrist, acquainted with some of his other small and, as such, is distinguished by many pieces, which then seized, and which still peculiar merits. His first quality is a occupy, the principal place in our regards. certain quiet simplicity of language and Indeed, it is on his little poems that the of purpose. His is not the elaborate and permanency of his fame is likely to rest, systematic simplicity of Wordsworth: it is as it is into them that he has chiefly shed unobtrusive, and essential to the action of the peculiarity and the beauty of his ge- his mind. It is a simplicity which the nius. James Montgomery has little in- diligent student of Scripture seldom fails ventive or dramatic power; he cannot to derive from its pages, particularly from write an epic; none of his larger poems, its histories and its psalms. It is the simwhile some are bulky, can be called great; plicity of a spirit which religion has subbut he is the best writer of hymns (under-dued as well as elevated, and which con

VOL. I.-L

our author's genius is too gentle and timid fully to extract. As soon could he have added a storey to Ugolino's tower, or another circle to the "Inferno," as have painted that pit of heat, hunger, and howling despair, the hold of a slave vessel. Let

ing, though it were in an ear half-shut in death, a louder, deeper, more victorious shout arising from emancipated America, and of saying, like Simeon of old, "Lord, now let thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen thy salvation."

sciously spreads abroad the wings of its ments of poetry, yet it was a poetry which imagination under the eye of God. As if each poem were a prayer, so is he sedulous that its words be few and well ordered. In short, his is not so much the simplicity of art, nor the simplicity of nature, as it is the simplicity of faith. It is the virgin dress of one of the white-him have his praise, however, as the conrobed priests in the ancient temple. It is stant and eloquent friend of the negro, a simplicity which, by easy and rapid tran- and as the laureate of his freedom. The sition, mounts into bold and manly enthu- high note struck at first by Cowper in his siasm. One is reminded of the artless lines, "I would not have a slave," &c., it sinkings and soarings, lingerings and hur- was reserved for Montgomery to echo and ryings, of David's matchless minstrelsies. swell up, in reply to the full diapason of the Profound insight is not peculiarly Mont-liberty of Ham's children, proclaimed in gomery's forte. He is rather a seraph than all the isles which Britain claims as hers. a cherub; rather a burning than a know- And let us hope that he will be rewarded, ing one. He kneels; he looks upward before the close of his existence, by hearwith rapt eye; he covers at times his face with his wing; but he does not ask solemn questions, or cast strong though baffled glances into the solid and intolerable glory. You can never apply to him the words of Grey. He never has "passed the bounds of flaming space, where angels tremble as they gaze." He has never invaded those lofty but dangerous regions of speculative thought, where some have dwelt till they have lost all of piety, save its grandeur and gloom. He does not reason, far less doubt, on the subject of religion at all; it is his only to wonder, to love, to weep, and to adore. Sometimes, but seldom, can he be called a sublime writer. In sublime. It is in the description of the his "Wanderer of Switzerland," he blows sky of the south—a subject which, indeed, a bold horn, but the echoes and the ava- is itself inspiration. And yet, in that sky, lanches of the highest Alps will not an- the great constellations hung up in the swer or fall to his reveillé. In his wondering evening air, the Dove, the "Greenland," he expresses but faintly the Raven, the Ship of Heaven, "sailing from poetry of Frost; and his line is often cold Eternity;" the Wolf, "with eyes of lightas a glacier. His "World before the ning watching the Centaur's spear;" the Flood" is a misnomer. It is not the Altar blazing, "even at the footsteps of young, virgin, undrowned world it pro- Jehovah's throne;" the Cross, "meek emfesses to be. In his "West Indies," there blem of redeeming love," which (bendis more of the ardent emancipator than of ing at midnight as when they were takthe poet; you catch but dimly, through ing down the Saviour of the world) greetits correct and measured verse, a glimpse ed the eye of Humboldt as he sailed over of Ethiopia—the suppliant standing with the still Pacific, had so hung and so one shackled foot on the Rock of Gibraltar, burned for ages, and no poet had sung and the other on the Cape of Good Hope, their praises. Patience, ye glorious tremand "stretching forth her hands" to an blers! In a page of this "Pelican Island" avenging God. And although, in the hor- -a page bright as your own beams, and rors of the middle passage, there were ele-like them immortal, shall your splendours

The plan of the "Pelican Island" was an unfortunate one, precluding as it did almost entirely human interest, and rapid vicissitude of events; and resting its power principally upon the description of foreign objects, and of slow though majestic processes of nature. Once, and once only, in this, and perhaps in any of his poems, does he rise into the rare region of the

be yet inscribed. This passage floats the poem, and will long memorise Montgomery's name.

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tiful verses; but then HE is up amid the midnight and all its stars; he is out amid the Alps, and is catching on his brow the living breath of that rarest inspiration which moves amid them, then, and then alone.

Among Montgomery's smaller poems, the finest is the "Stanzas at Midnight," composed in Switzerland, and which we see inserted in Longfellow's romance of We mentioned Cowper in conjunction Hyperion," with no notice or apparent with Montgomery in a former sentence. knowledge of their authorship. They They resemble each other in the pious describe a mood of his own mind while purpose and general simplicity of their passing a night among the Alps, and con-writings, but otherwise are entirely distain a faithful transcript of the emotions tinct. Cowper's is a didactic, Montwhich, thick and sombre as the shadows gomery's a romantic piety. Cowper's is of the mountains, crossed his soul in its a gloomy, Montgomery's a cheerful resolitude. There are no words of Foster's ligion. Cowper has in him a fierce and which to us possess more meaning than bitter vein of satire, often irritating into that simple expression in his first essay, invective; we find no traces of any such "solemn meditations of the night." No- thing in all Montgomery's writings. Cowthing in spiritual history is more inte- per's withering denunciations seem shreds resting. What vast tracts of thought of Elijah's mantle, torn off and set on fire does the mind sometimes traverse when in the whirlwind; Montgomery is clothed it cannot sleep! What ideas, that had in the softer garments, and breathes the bashfully presented themselves in the gentler genius, of the new economy. And light of day, now stand out in bold relief as poets, Montgomery, with more imagiand authoritative dignity! How vividly nation and elegance, is entirely destitute appear before us the memories of the of the rugged strength of sentiment, the expast! How do past struggles and sins quisite keenness of observation, the rich return to recollection, rekindling on our humour, and the awful personal pathos cheeks their first fierce blushes unseen of Cowper. in the darkness! How new a light is cast upon the great subjects of spiritual contemplation! What a "browner horror" falls upon the throne of death, and the pale kingdoms of the grave! What projects are then formed, what darings of purpose conceived, and how fully can we then understand the meaning of the poet

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Montgomery's hymns (properly so called) we do not much admire. They have in them often a false gallop of religious sentimentalism. Their unction has been kept too long, and has a savour not of the sweetest: they abound less, indeed, than many of their class in such endearing epithets as dear Lord," "dear Christ," sweet Jesus," &c.; but are not entirely free from these childish decorations. That one song sung by the solitary Jewish maiden in "Ivanhoe" (surely the sweetest strain ever uttered since the spoilers of Judah did by Babel's streams require of its captives a song, and were answered

And when, through the window, looks in that melting melody which has drawn in on us one full glance of a clear large the tears and praises of all time), is worth star, how startling it seems, like a con- all the hymn-books that were ever comscious, mild, yet piercing eye; how sooth- posed. Montgomery's true hymns are ingly it mingles with our meditations, and, those which bear not the name, but as with a pencil of fire, points them away which sing, and for ever will sing, their into still remoter and more mysterious own quiet tune to simple and pious spirits. regions of thought! Such a meditation Of Montgomery's prose, we might say Montgomery has embodied in these beau-much that was favourable. It is truly