Such was Julia Kenneth; a living form of loveliness.' self one day seated on the stump of a tree, round which Lost to society, and hidden from the world, the tenor of some dark yews and spreading oaks formed a delightful her life was simple and undiversified by incident; of com- alcove. His line was floating unheeded in the stream; a pany she had little or none, excepting when her father, book-it was the poenis of Old Kitt Marlow'-had fallen who was really proud of her personal charms, obliged her from his hand; he had been reading 'Hero and Leander.' to appear at his table. When compelled to meet the Here he sat, in a world of poetry and romantic feeling, company which usually assembled there, she constantly when his ear was suddenly struck by such sweet sounds endeavoured to preserve a respectful silence, and always as, to his excited senses, seemed to proceed from no morretired when an opportunity presented itself. The ful- tal lips. He started to his feet, bounded from the alcove, some praises she met with disgusted her; and the thought and gazed toward the little pathway that led through the that her father mingled with and encouraged such con- wood. There he saw a lady, or rather, as he thought, an pany, excited in her tender breast feelings of sorrow and angelic visitant, patting a large hound which she had been grief. Excepting her domestic duties, her time was di- reproving for his rather rough attentions to her. She was vided between rambling amidst the beautiful scenery with clothed in a green mantle, interspersed with violets, over which her father's mansion was adorned, and visiting the which hung a profusion of jet-black tresses. Her counteinhabitants of the small village attached to the estate. nance appeared of magical beauty, her neck was of exquiWhen on such errands, she was always welcomed as a site whiteness, and her lips, which reflected the richness visiter of mercy. She delighted in doing good, and acted and odours of the rose, seemed to encase pearls of dazzling almoner to her mother, who had early taught her to take transparency. At this sight Aubrey was stunned; never pleasure in ministering to the wants of the poor, and in before had he seen his ideal of perfect beauty so fully giving assistance and consolation to the sick and afflicted. realized; never had his heart beat with such tumultuous Delighted with her task, Julia was well known and dearly throbs; never had the blood rushed with such celerity beloved by all the simple-hearted peasants. They all through his veins; never, in the presence of court-dames knew the story of her mother's sorrows; they knew and and high-born ladies, had he felt himself so bewitched; hated Rubini, as a bold bad man, and while they feared in short, never before had Aubrey Stanley felt himself in Kenneth for the merciless injuries he sometimes inflicted love. How long he stood we cannot tell, but when he on them, they also pitied him for being the dupe of a de- awoke from his trance the object of his adoration had dissigning villain. Their mistress Angella, and Father Je- appeared in the direction in which he knew the village of rome, were also well known and beloved, and, indeed, Kenwick lay. His first impression was that he had seen Jerome was reckoned among their greatest friends. To a phantom, and his first impulse was to follow her. him all complaints of grievances were made, and through Hastily drawing his line, and seizing his book, he purhim they sought redress. Rubini hated Jerome, and sued the road she had taken. After a short walk he came would gladly have sacrificed him to his fury, but dared to the village, without seeing any traces of the object of not. Kenneth regarded him as a saintly hypocrite, and his pursuit. He wandered through the village, but all affected to despise him, but, in reality, the contempt was in vain; at last, not a little perplexed, he entered the mingled with much fear. Jerome was never behind in inn, and calling for some refreshment, he threw himself his duty of reproving Kenneth, whenever any outbreak on a bench. Here he remained, wondering at the advenof passion or violence required it. Nor did he use many ture, and at his own state of feeling. Wearied with conwords in so doing. He usually delivered his denuncia-jecture, he determined to make some inquiries of his antions in a few short sentences, which made the coward soul of Kenneth shrink within itself. Thus the master was led to avoid Jerome, and to keep on as good terms with him as possible.

6

cient hostess; with this view he called his bill, made some remarks on the weather, and concluded by inquiring about the peasantry in the village. On this last question the old dame gave him a long narrative of the state of the Such were the parties, and such the course of life at villagers; spoke of the inmates of the castle, declaimed Kenneth Castle, when an incident occurred which was against Rubini in no measured terms, pitied the Lady Anfraught with the most important consequences to the gella, and, what sounded like music in Aubrey's ears, she gentle Julia. For some months there had been a young described and praised the young lady, Miss Julia,' as she Englishman residing at an old mansion-house in the neigh-styled her. She told him how Julia was beloved by all bourhood, belonging to a nobleman, who only occupied it the peasants, how she was so good and gentle, how she during a certain portion of the year, for the convenience regularly visited the poor people, supplying them with of shooting, fishing, and other sports, which the country food and clothing, and how she superintended a school afforded in rich abundance. Aubrey Stanley was the heir for the children, which she and Father Jerome had estaof a noble English family; he had just with honour blished. This was sufficient for Aubrey; giving the wofinished his academical career, and being a passionate man a guinea, he left the house, determined to see Julia devotee of the gentle craft,' and an ardent admirer of the as she returned home. He went straight to the forest, racy Walton, and just at that age when the world seems full nor had he long to wait before the desired object appearof poetry, romance, and lovely forms to the imaginative ed. The large hound was still by her side, and as evenand cultivated youth, he had come to the north for the ing was approaching, she was walking quickly along. purpose of spending some months in sport, and to dream Aubrey had placed himself near a wooden bridge which away, amidst the beauties and sublimities of nature, what he knew Julia should pass. When she was within a may be called the transition period of life. As the river short distance of it, he left his retreat and advanced to of Kenwick abounded with fine trout and as fine scenery, meet her. As they approached each other, the hound Aubrey spent a great portion of his time on its richly advanced before her and gave a slight growl, which, with covered banks; at one time trimming his line or landing sweet accents, she restrained. In passing her, Aubrey a gold-bespangled favourite from the watery element; felt confused; he, however, summoned sufficient coolness at another humming some old ditty, such as Come live to return her salute. Still there was a perplexity; he with me and be my love;' or sitting in a reverie beneath lingered as if inclined to prolong the salutation; fain some ancient oak, dreaming of ladye faire,' and woodland would he have offered to attend her to the castle, but nymphs, and sighing, in the fulness of his soul, that the that modesty and delicacy peculiar to noble and sensitive age of chivalry was past. Thus passed his days, his head natures restrained him. After she had passed him, he never aching, his heart light and buoyant, and his joys again turned, and, at a respectful distance, followed her unclouded by any pressing care. Though, it must be con- till she disappeared within the walls of the castle. Once fessed, that sometimes he would sigh for some fair, gentle only had Julia looked back, but this one look was sufficient being in whose society he might enjoy the transports of to set the lively fancy of Aubrey to work. He felt certhe scene; and his mind, taking flight, would attempt to tain that Julia had seen him. He wished, and, accordpierce the future, and scan beforehand what his fate might ingly, believed, that Julia would remember him. The be. In such a mood as this, Aubrey Stanley found him- feelings of Aubrey, on his return, may be better felt than

expressed. He had heard something of Kenneth Castle and its inmates, but he had never dreamed that it could contain so rare a jewel. He felt angry at himself for not knowing it sooner. He devised a hundred plans for becoming acquainted with her. He meditated on her beauty, her simplicity, and her goodness, until he wrought himself into a fever. Wherever he went, whatever he did, Julia was before him. He retired to his chamber; he thought of England and the fair ladies there; Julia was also there, and surpassed them all in loveliness. He threw himself on his couch, but not to rest; the fair stranger filled his dreams, and in fancy he roved with her in the woods of Kenneth, and then led her forth as his bride in the halls of Stanley Castle. Thus did Aubrey pass the night. How was it with Julia? As may be supposed, it was not possible that Julia could meet with a tall noble-looking youth, equipped as Aubrey was, alone in a forest where she had been accustomed only to see simple peasants, without being struck with his appearance; without noticing his visible confusion; without, in short, thinking who he could be, what was he doing, why did he desire to accompany her, and why did he follow her until she reached the castle and then disappear. All these thoughts crowded into her mind, and she could not but contrast his gallant and gentle appearance with that of those she was wont to see at her father's table; and though it cannot be said that anything like love ever entered into her breast, yet she did feel there was an indescribable something about Aubrey which had left a favourable impression on her mind, and which caused her, in the course of the evening, frequently to think of the stranger she had seen where she thought it strange for any one unknown to her to be found.

felt before; new emotions and feelings awoke within her breast, and she took a great pleasure in thinking over the nobleness and frankness of the young Englishman. To Aubrey, too, the world seemed changed; in the woods of Kenneth he thought he could pass the remainder of his days, were these to be spent in the company of Julia. The dreams of ambition and greatness he had formerly cherished he thought he could easily exchange for the delight of ruling with her in the little village. He would not exchange one glance from Julia for all the smiles of all the high dames in whose magic circle he had been wont to move. For several weeks Aubrey and Julia met regularly in the forest, and went, though perhaps with slower steps than usual, to the village, and, as at first, returned in the evening; but it is possible she might now be later in returning to the castle than formerly. Julia never thought of asking herself why she felt a delight in the company of Aubrey; she had spoken of him to her mother, and, in her artless manner, related how he interested himself in the cause of the peasantry. Angella, ever alive to the welfare of her daughter, made no curious inquiries about Aubrey; she wished to see him, but dared not invite him to visit her; she therefore resolved to watch the effect of the acquaintance on her daughter's mind, to instruct Jerome to make inquiries about him, and to wait in patience for an opportunity of meeting with him.

The season was now far advanced, the leaves of the forest assumed their yellow tinge, prelusive of their dissolution; still Aubrey thought not of returning to England. The meetings were continued with the same regularity as ever, though not so often, in consequence of the season; Julia did not visit the village so frequently, but her absence was supplied by Aubrey, and often by Jerome, who frequently met with him. Julia one day visited the school, but Aubrey knew not of it; the day was stormy, and he exchanged the rod for the gun. While Julia was at the village, a storm of rain and sleet came on, which detained her long beyond her usual time. In the grey of evening she set out on her return home, never thinking of anything to impede her progress; the way, however, was slippery, which was a cause of much delay, and when she came to the river she found it had risen so high, with the floods from the hills, as to flow completely over the narrow bridge which she had to pass; she was perplexed, and knew not what to do, and darkness was fast setting in. At the castle, Angella had been alarmed by the storm and her daughter's absence, and had sent Jerome, with two domestics, in search of her. Julia, unused to danger, was yet possessed of courage to act in a case of emergency, and seeing her only way was to pass the bridge, if possible, before it was carried off, which she knew it had frequently been before, resolved to attempt it.

Next morning Aubrey rose with the lark; Julia and his rod were his first thoughts; and he repaired to that spot, which had now become to him almost consecrated ground. As usual, he threw his line, but it was only thrown; he seated himself on the stump of the tree and attempted to read, but the words conveyed no ideas to his mind. Nor will this appear strange; his thoughts were fixed on Julia, he was drawn to the spot by a mysterious sympathy he cared not to examine, and he waited with the patience of a lover, far surpassing that of the angler, only in expectation of that being to whom he found himself irresistibly attached. Nor will this seem improbable to any one who has felt, in all their potency, the ardent workings of that mysterious principle which impels one human being to seek for communion and sympathy with a fellow being-that is, love. With such feelings did Aubrey pass the hours until the time that Julia should be on her way to the village. He packed up his fishing-tackle and sought the pathway. Here he wandered up and down till his heart was gladdened by the sight of the object of his longings. How should he address her? What ex- Imploring the divine protection, and with her faithcuse had he for again meeting her? And many other ful hound at her side, she committed herself to the questions, familiar to young hearts in such circumstances, fragile passage. The stream ran strong over it, and Julia occurred to his mind. Without narrating the practical found it necessary to hold by the rail as she went across; solutions Aubrey gave to these, it is sufficient to state, the bridge shook and trembled beneath her, and, as she that he got over these difficulties, and in a few minutes gained the centre, her strength was nearly exhausted; Julia and he were pursuing their way to the village, en- clinging to the rail for support, she sought to regain her gaged in a lively conversation on the season, scenery, and breath, when, just at that moment, the huge trunk of a the objects of her charity. Julia felt rather delighted tree, charged with destruction, and urged by the impetuthan otherwise at thus meeting with a person who dis-ous torrent, struck away the principal prop, and the fatal played such grace and sweetness of manner, and who was bridge, with its lovely passenger, who uttered one wild able to feel an interest in her little plans. Aubrey and shriek, were swept away into the torrent below. But her Julia proceeded to the village, visited the school, and re- shriek had been heard; Aubrey, returning from his sport turned, till within a short distance of the castle, where by way of Kenneth Castle, in hopes, perhaps, to see the they parted as if they had been friends for years. form of his beloved, had lingered by the way, and was at that moment watching the progress of the raging flood. The sound rose on his ear, his heart leapt from its place, that tone was not to be mistaken, and the howl of the faithful Oscar convinced him that the idol of his heart was in danger. Like lightning he hastened along the bank, and immediately saw a female form floating down the river. He plunged into the flood, though its strength was almost irresistible; by avoiding the main current, in a few minutes he laid hold on the dress of

It would be useless here to trace the mental processes which led to this result; these will be easily understood by such as have felt them, and no description could make them plain to those who have not. Since they met, the hours had passed on angels' wings, but there had been time enough for each to relate much of their past history and their present circumstances, and to form several little schemes of future pleasure. Julia went to her chamber that night with feelings different from what she had ever

Julia, as she came floating past him, borne up by the faithful hound, which had laid hold of its mistress the moment the bridge gave way. Jerome and his companions, who had also heard the cry, were now at the river side with lights. With almost superhuman exertions, Aubrey, with his insensible charge, managed to get clear of the rapids, and, by swimming with the stream, was enabled to reach the bank about half a mile below the place of accident. By the aid of Jerome and his assistants, they were both conveyed to land; Julia had fainted when she fell into the river, and Aubrey was so exhausted that he fell to the earth as soon as he got to land. Assistance was had from the castle, which was close at hand, and they were both conveyed thither. The inmates had been alarmed; Kenneth and Rubini were leaving it when the sad party arrived; even Angella had left her apartment, and met them in the hall. In a short time Aubrey recovered from his exhaustion, and eagerly inquired after the fate of Julia. She had been conveyed to her mother's chamber, and, after long exertions, she began to give signs of returning consciousness. After she was in some degree recovered, her mother hastened to see the deliverer of her darling child. Jerome had informed her who he was, and her kind heart beat high with gratitude. Aubrey briefly informed them how he happened to be in the neighbourhood at the moment, and at last yielded to the entreaties of Angella to pass the night at the castle; and after partaking of some slight refreshment, and receiving the mingled blessings and thanks of Angella, and repeat-fury of a maniac, urged the horses at full speed down the ed assurances of Julia's safety from Jerome, he retired to kis chamber. Julia was cautiously informed by her mother who had been her preserver; and now did Angella first learn, from the alarm and agitation of Julia, how dear Aubrey had become to her daughter.

Next morning Julia, still weak and pale, was able to appear at breakfast, where Aubrey was again loaded with the thanks of Angella, and amply rewarded for his daring by the still more eloquent gratitude which beamed from the eyes of Julia. Gladly would he have encountered a thousand dangers to reap the same rich recompense. Even Kenneth was eloquent on the occasion, for he really loved his daughter, and was grateful for her preservation, more especially when he learned her preserver was the son of an English nobleman; he repeated his invitations for Aubrey to remain at the castle, and offered to join him in all his sports. But there was one in the company whose soul could not brook this scene; his dark eyes spoke the depth and malignity of his hatred against the brave youth. Angella and Julia beheld this and trembled. Aubrey remained that and the following day at the castle, and spent many happy hours in the company of Julia and her mother, after which he took his leave, with many promises to be a frequent visiter. This introduction of a stranger, a friend to Angella, rather favoured by Kenneth, and evidently loved by Julia, did not please Rubini; he felt that it might blast his most cherished scheme, which he now longed to execute. For many years he had watched the growth of Julia, and had done all in his power to secure her favour, but in vain; and he felt assured, were Angella and Jerome removed out of the way, he could easily prevail on, or at the worst compel, Kenneth to force Julia to accept his hand. To secure this end, he had endeavoured to excite Kenneth against his wife, even desiring that he should dispatch her by a deed of violence, and, this done, Jerome would be easily dealt with. Such was the diabolical plan the villain had formed and fondly cherished for many years, and such, now that he was led to suspect the attachment of Julia and Aubrey, he was most desirous to consummate. An opportunity soon occurred which he thought would accomplish his project; but we must hurry over the details. Angella was, as usual, suffering the most cruel treatment from her husband, when Rubini persuaded Kenneth to visit some boon companions at a distance from Kenwick; they accordingly left the castle, and were absent for above a week. In the meantime Aubrey paid his accustomed visits, but a creature, properly trained by Rubini, wrote

letters filled with gross falsehoods against the character of Angella and that of Aubrey; these were carefully shown to Kenneth at proper seasons. At last a forged letter, as if written by Angella to Aubrey, was presented to him by Rubini. The letter set forth that an entertainment would be given at Kenneth Castle on that night, when Aubrey would be expected to do the honours of the table, and much to the like effect. The jealousy of Kenneth was fully confirmed, and revenge fired his soul. Enraged with passion and ardent spirits, his carriage was ordered out, and Rubini and his victim, spite of the storm that was raging, set out for the castle, where they hoped to arrive about midnight. On the way, Kenneth was plied with liquor, and he became absolutely frantic. Rubini felt sure of his prize. Night had long since set in, and the end of their journey was at hand. Never had a famished wolf so howled for a victim as Kenneth thirsted for the blood of his innocent wife; never had Rubini so acted the fiend incarnate; never had he felt so elated. In imagination he already saw himself the possessor of the wealth and beauty of Julia; and he exulted in the thought that the success of his schemes was at hand. But how short is the triumph of the wicked! how delusive their anticipations! Their 'joy is but for a moment. Urged by the rage of Kenneth, the horses sped on their journey like lightning. To reach the castle, they had to descend into the valley by a narrow and dangerous path. Here Kenneth had seized the reins, and, with the hill; about half-way down the carriage got a sudden jerk, the horses started aside, and crash went carriage and horses over the side of the hill, and dashed down the precipice. The cries of their attendant, who had been thrown off his seat at the first jerk, alarmed the porter at the gate; the domestics hurried to the spot. Far down in the valley below the carriage was found dashed in pieces, the horses shockingly mangled, and beside them the lifeless body of Rubini. Kenneth was still living, and he, with the corpse of Rubini, was borne into the castle. The news of the accident soon spread through the village; a physician, with whom Aubrey was spending the night, was called, and both hastened to the castle, where Aubrey was employed in allaying the horrors of Angella, and in soothing the terrified and fainting Julia. Jerome also attended the wretched Kenneth, who only survived a few days. His death was horrible; he confessed the object of his sudden return, and, groaning, implored pardon from Angella, who had loved him too well in life to refuse him pardon at death. The village and castle were struck with horror and fear at the tragical event, and a universal gloom overshadowed both. It is needless to particularize; the funeral followed in due course, nor can we say there was much sorrow manifested except by the afflicted Angella and her gentle daughter.

Aubrey spent a great part of his time at Kenneth. Things were now changed; Angella was sole mistress, and adored by her domestics. About a month after the event, Aubrey received letters requiring his immediate presence in England. His father had been long ill, and the period of his dissolution was come; and Aubrey, with many fond regrets, and promises of unchanging friendship, hastened to take leave of Angella; she gave him her blessing, and assured him of her prayers for his welfare. The parting with Julia was tender and affectionate; the lovely girl now looked upon him as her sole friend and protector; she clung to him like the woodbine to the oak, and, with her beautiful head on his bosom, shed many bitter tears. Many were the expressions of attachment mutually expressed. Aubrey arrived in England in time to receive his father's blessing, and to pay the last tribute of filial affection to his venerable and beloved parent. During the remainder of the winter, and the following summer, letters of condolence and affection were regularly interchanged by the fair inmates of Kenneth Castle, and the now Sir Aubrey Stanley. Summer passed away, and sober autumn succeeded. One fine day about the close of brown October,' a male and female

tween man and God himself appears religion, a veiled and awful diviner, explaining the laws, enforcing the obligations, and echoing the oracles of Eternal Wisdom. To show wherein the two powers are related together, will, in the course of the following remarks, be our pleasant task.

We call it a pleasant task, because, ere entering on the main topic of this essay, we are bound, in merest gratitude, to make a few preliminary observations on the charms of the beautiful witch Poetry. And, assuredly, among the many sweets which God has infused into the cup of being, among the many lenitives of this life, the many relics of the primeval past, the many foretastes of the glorious future, there are few more delicious than the influences of genuine poetry. It transports us from the dust and discord of the present troubled sphere into an ideal world. It lays us in the lap of a lovelier nature, by stiller streams and fairer meadows; it invigorates the intellect by the impassioned truth which is its substance; it enriches the imagination by the beauty of its pictures; it enlarges the mental view by the width and grandeur of its references; it inflames the affections by the touch ethereal of its fiery rod;' it purifies the morals by the powers of pity and terror; and, as we shall see afterwards, it sprinkles the waters of Castalia on the roses in the garden of God. The pleasures which poetry gives are not only exquisite but pure. Like the manna of old, they seem to descend from an ethereal

form might be seen in the alcove of oaks and yews by the side of the river of Kenwick, which the reader will remember. The youth was tall and noble; the lady 'beautiful exceedingly,' dressed in the sober garb of mourning. The eyes of both sparkled with delight, and they seemed to be dwelling with rapture on events or associations connected with that spot. Need we tell their names? Aubrey had arrived from England the day before, and ere that sun had set he had been referred by his blushing Julia to her mother, for her consent to that consummation on which all his thoughts had long centred. Angella received and blessed him as the preserver of her child's life; and into whose keeping could she with more propriety commit her? Julia and Aubrey were to become one on the Christmas day which was rapidly approaching. Amidst the preparations for the happy event, the few short weeks passed rapidly away. The simple and devoted peasantry were overjoyed that their bonnie young leddy' was to become the bride of the brave and kind Englishman. Christmas, with all its solemn, serious, light, 'merrie,' and heart-thrilling associations, at length arrived; the day was fair and frosty, and at an early hour the inmates of both castle and village were all astir; the peasants were dressed in their best, and joy sat on every countenance. The chapel of the castle was decked with the holly branch; in the centre of the hall was hung the magic misletoe, in the happy fashion and spirit of the merrie olden time;' and the huge oaken table groaned beneath the goodly cheer that was to regale knight and re-region; not of the earth earthy, but of celestial origin: tainer, noble and peasant. The gates of the castle were wide open, and from the passing to and fro of holiday dresses, laughing eyes, and happy faces, it could be easily seen that no ordinary event was about to transpire. In the chapel of the castle, amidst the tears and smiles of Angella, the blessings of Father Jerome, and the musical hum of approbation from the spectators, Sir Aubrey Stanley received the willing heart and lovely hand of the blushing and beautiful Julia Kenneth.

In conclusion, we may add, that Sir Aubrey and Lady Stanley, with Angella and Father Jerome, repaired to England early in spring, where they were joyfully welcomed by their devoted tenantry. They were accustomed to spend one portion of the year in England and the other in Scotland. Nor was the school at Kenwick neglected; a regular teacher was appointed, and thither Julia and Aubrey often repaired to renew the associations of their earlier years. Jerome resided with them till his death; and Lady Angella, after all her trials and afflictions, had the delight and satisfaction of seeing her children and grandchildren flourish around her, admired by all, and universally beloved.

THE CONNEXION BETWEEN POETRY
AND RELIGION.

THE subject on which we propose to make a few remarks
is one of much interest, because it professes to point out
the varied links which connect two of the noblest of all
subjects, namely, our relation to intellectual, and our re-
lation to moral and spiritual beauty. Poetry is the art of
translating the loveliness of nature into the loveliness
of language. Religion is the science by which the human
character is transformed into the divine. Poetry is the
power of catching the inspiration of nature. Religion is
that of drinking at once into the spirit of God. In poetry,
nature as it is-bright but imperfect, glorious though fallen,
reverend though in ruins-is transferred before us into
the magic of words and melody of numbers. In religion,
nature as it should be-as it at first existed in the ideal of
the Infinite Mind, as it lay before the eye of the Eternal,
unfallen in the sunshine of creation's seventh day, as it
shall yet blossom in more than the beauty of primeval
Eden, in a future era and under a happier economy-is
the theme of prophecy, the topic of praise, and the object
of aspiration. Between man and nature stands up poetry,
a gay and eloquent interpreter, revealing the features of
the mighty mother to her frail but favoured child. Be-

at first they point back to heaven as their future and final
home. They bear every reflection, and they awaken no
re-action. A night with the muses seldom produces a
morning with the fiends. The world into which poetry
transports us has this advantage, it is always the same.
The sun of Homer shines upon us still.' The meadows
of genius are for ever fresh and green. The maidens who
pass over her pictured page are for ever beautiful. The
skies of imagination continually smile. The actual world
changes, the ideal is always one and the same. Achilles
is always strong; Helen always fair, as when the old men
on the walls of Troy stood up as she passed; Mount Ida
continually cleaves the clouds; Scamander rushes ever by
in the music of Homer's verse; the Eve of Milton still
stands ankle deep in the flowers of her garden, and the
horn of Fitz-James winds in the gorge of the Trossachs
for evermore. A thing of beauty is a joy for ever."
And when we remember that, above the storms and surges
of this every-day working world, there rises in the page
of the poet a fairy realm, which he who reads may reach,
and straightway forget his sorrow and remember his po-
verty no more, we see the debt of gratitude we owe to
poetry, and looking at the perennial peace and loveliness
which surround her wherever she goes, we may almost
apply to her the beautiful lines of Bruce to that 'com-
panion of the spring' the cuckoo,-

Sweet bird, thy bower is ever fair
Thy sky is ever clear,
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No winter in thy year.'

How many, even without having written a line of verse,
can say of poetry, with Coleridge, that it has been to them
its own exceeding great reward;' that it has soothed their
sorrows, multiplied their joys, and taught them the in-
valuable habit of finding the good and the beautiful in
every thing around them. For our own part, we can
testify that the pleasures of this delightful art have not
been to us a spring shut up nor a fountain sealed; that
the reading of the works of the bards-the Homers, the
Shakspeares, the Miltons, the Drydens, the Southeys, the
Coleridges, the Elliots, the Tennysons, the Wilsons, and
the Nicols, not to speak of the numerous and noble array
of prose poets, who, wanting the accomplishment of
verse,' have possessed the vision and the faculty divine,'
and whose prose has all the eloquence, all the feeling, all
the imagery, and much of the melody of rhythmical com-
position, the Taylors, the Burkes, the Fosters, the Halls,
the Browns, and the Chalmerses-that the reading of

their works has been to us a source of joy beyond the
name of pleasure, deep self-possession and intense repose,'
and that fully can we unite with the great man, who is
at once the poet-laureate and the poet of England, Wil-
liam Wordsworth, in saying-

'Blessings be with them, and eternal praise,
The poets, who on earth have made us heirs
Of truth and pure delight, by heavenly lays.'

We have mentioned prose poets, because, in opposition to
the common error, we wish it impressed on the reader's
mind, that poetry may be found in prose, as every body
knows that prose is often found passing for poetry.
There is far more poetry intermingled with the com-
mon affairs of life than we at first would suppose.
The child is a poet, when he wreathes his neck with
flowers; the countryman when he stops to look at the rain-
bow; the savage when he paints his idol with blood.'
The ship, as she goes rushing through the deep, with all
her sails spread, is a glorious poetess. There is a kind
of rhyme in the regular motion of the shuttle, and we
have all heard of Thom of Inverury, the weaver poet.
Nay, there is a sort of dark poetry in the black cloud of
smoke which rises from our own mills and manufactories.
And what a poetical object is the forge, with the spray
of sparkles which flash around it? The victorious sound
of the hammer, and even the dusky figure of the smith,
reminds us, by a fine poetical transition, of the Cyclops
in the bowels of Etna, and of Ebenezer Elliot, the sturdy
ironmonger of Sheffield, who can manufacture both steel-
yards and sonnets, 'bring hard owre hip the strong fore-
hammer,' and paint with a pencil of fire the sufferings of
the poor, and whom we always picture to ourselves as
exercising both his professions in much the same style of
animal exertion-whom we see always riving, tearing, and
smiting at his reluctant words, as if at some piece of tough
intractable metal, bringing the subject red-hot from the
furnace of his mind, laying it on the anvil of his desk,
and hammering it out amid showers of coruscations.
Yes, poetry is far from being confined to the trammels
of verse.

Some of its noblest strains have been sung, some of its finest sentiments have been uttered in prose. Our greatest, our most poetical thinkers, of the present day, Macaulay, Chalmers, Wilson, Carlyle, Emerson, Isaac Taylor, content themselves, generally speaking, with prose. The noblest sentences ever uttered are prose. The golden rule is prose. It was in prose that Newton said, 'I resemble a boy gathering pebbles on the seashore, while the great ocean of truth lies unexplored before me. Kepler's three gigantic laws were first uttered in very rugged Latin prose. In soft Italian tones, but still in prose, whispered Galileo, Still it moves.' So much for the poetry of prose; we will now show how religion and poetry are related.

bell, he exclaims, as he looks at the beautiful appari-
tion-
'As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem,
As when the eagle, from the ark,
First sported in thy beam.'

The lightning is not merely an electric discharge, it is a barbed arrow of vengeance, it is winged with death; the thunder is not so much an elemental uproar as it is the voice of God; the stars are not so much vast and distant orbs as they are eyes looking down on earth with intelligence, sympathy, and love; the ocean is not a dead assemblage of waters, it is a glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form glasses itself in tempests;' the sky is not to the poet a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours,' it is a magnificent canopy fretted with golden fire;' nay, to his anointed eye every blade of grass lives, every flower has its sentiment, every tree its moral, and visions, as poetic eyes avow, hang in each leaf and cling to every bough.' This perpetual personification springs from that principle of love which teaches the poet to regard all men as his brethren, the whole earth as his home, to say not only of the meanest of his fellow-creatures, a man's a man for a' that,' but to throw his own excess of soul into dumb, deaf, and dead things, and to find even in them subjects of his sympathy and candidates for his regard. It was in this spirit that Sterne said, that were he in a desert he would love some cypress. It was in this spirit that the bard of Coila did not disdain to address the mouse, running from his ploughshare, as his fellow-mortal,' and bespeak even the ill-fated daisy, which the same ploughshare destroyed, nay, rather transplanted into the garden of his never-dying song.

'Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower,
Thou'st met me in an evil hour,
And I maun crush, below the stoure,
Thy feeble stem;

To spare thee noo is past my power,
Thou bonnie gem.

Alas, it's no thy neebor sweet,

The blythesome lark, companion meet,
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,

Wi' spreckled breast,

While upward springing, blythe to greet
The purpling east.'

And in the same spirit of all-animating and all-personi-
fying love it is that Wordsworth sings-

6

'To me, the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.' Is this the spirit of genuine poetry? And what is the spirit of genuine religion? Is it not a warm, holy, disinterested affection, which, dwelling originally in the breast of Him whose name is love, has become incarnate in his Son, and through him has flowed forth over the length and breadth of the earth in the good news and glad tidings of the gospel? We grant that the love of the gospel is of a nobler, holier, more powerful, more seraphic nature than that love which is the soul of poetry. But we maintain that this love also is of God; that its torch, too, has been kindled at the golden censer;' that it is a celestial flame, and that the 'burning ones' of earth are akin, however far inferior, to the burning ones' of heaven. We grant that the spirit of poetry cannot, like the love of the gospel, save and sanctify the soul, but it can elevate the sentiment, it can refine the manners, it can enlarge the views, it can purify the tastes, it can at once multiply and clarify the sources of pleasure; and is it not then, we ask, at the least worthy of officiating as a handmaid in the house where religion is the mistress; and as the eyes of a handmaid regard the hand of her mistress, so poetry is never so worthily or so nobly employed as when she is working the holy work, and watching the majestic motions of that 'daughter of the king who is all glorious within.'

Poetry and religion are related in nature. The essence of both is the same. What is poetry? Many definitions have been attempted in answer to this question. It is, says Johnson, the art of pleasing; it is, says an older authority (Aristotle), imitation. What is poetry ?' asks Ebenezer Elliot; it is impassioned truth.' What is poetry? Were we asked, in other words, what is its essence and its soul, we should reply, it is love, pure, refined, insatiable affection for the beautiful forms of this material universe, for the beautiful affections of the human soul, for the beautiful passages of the history of the past, for the beautiful prospects which expand before us in the future. It is this which makes personification the life of poetry. The poet looks upon nature, not with the philosopher, as composed of certain abstractions, certain cold material laws,' but he breathes upon them and they quicken into personal life, and become objects, as it were, of personal attachment. The winds, with him, are not cold currents of air, they are messengers, they are couriers, The connexion between religion and poetry is mainthe messengers of destiny, the couriers of God; the rain- tained in the sacred volume. The Bible is, properly bow is not a mere prismatic effect of light, but, to the speaking, a poem; its words are words of poetry; it is poet, in the language of the son of Sirach, it encom- a mass of beautiful and striking figures; it has gapasseth the heavens with a glorious circle, and the hands thered around its great solid truths every kind of naof the Most High have bended it;' and, with Camp-tural beauty and interest; it is a temple-with one