glory, there is no degree of beauty or deformity, no tendency to good or evil, no shade of darkness or gleam of light, which does not come within the cognizance of the Holy Scriptures; and therefore there is no impression or conception of the mind that may not find at corresponding picture, no thirst for excellence that may not meet with its full supply, and no condition of humanity necessarily excluded from the unlimited scope of adaptation and of sympathy comprehended in the language and the spirit of the Bible.

How gracious then--how wonderful, and harmonius, is that majestic plan by which one ethereal principle, like an electric chain of light and life, extends through the very elements of our existence, giving music to language, elevation to thought, vitality to feeling, and intensity, and power, and beauty, and happiness, to the exercise of every faculty of the human soul !

THE POETRY OF RELIGION.

Nor are the Holy Scriptures the utmost bound of the sphere through which poetry extends. With that religion which is the essence of the Bible, it may also be associated. The power of human intellect has never yet worked out from the principles of thought and feeling, a subject more sublime than that of an omnipotent Being presiding over a universe of his own. creating. There have been adventurous spirits who have dared to sing the wonders of a world without a God, but as a proof how much they felt the want of this higher range of poetical interest, they have referred the creation and government of the external world to an ideal spirit of nature-a mysterious intelligence,

single or multiplied, smiling in the sunshine, and frowning in the storm, with the mock majesty of omnipotence.

Again, the propensities of our nature-the low grovelling hopes and fears that agitate the human heart, when centred solely in what is material, without connexion with, or reference to eternal mind, as subjects for the genius of the poet, are robbed of half their interest, and all their refinement; but when the feelings which form the sum of our experience are regarded as the impress of the hand of our Creator, when the motives which lead us on to action are considered as deriving their stimulus and strength from almighty power, and when the great chain of circumstances and events which influence our lives are linked in with the designs of a superintending Providence, they assume a character at once poetical and sacred, a colouring which blends the light of heaven with the shades of earth, and an importance which raises them from what is ordinary and familiar, to what is astonishing and sublime.

The

The most serious objection ever advanced against poetry, is that of its not necessarily constituting any part of our religion, and being in no way essential to our spiritual progress. Upon precisely the same principles it might be argued, that beauty does not necessarily form any part of utility, and that happiness is not essential to the moral constitution of man. same answer will apply in both cases; and it is one which ought to be sufficient for creatures of limited perceptions like ourselves. It has seemed meet to the Author of our existence so to construct our mental and bodily functions, that we shall derive pleasure from the principle of beauty diffused throughout the external world, and that we shall be lured on by a perpetual thirst for enjoyment to that which is only true and lasting happiness; as well as so to constitute our perceptions and feelings, that poetry shall be one of our chief sources of intellectual gratification,

Our

at the same time that it is intimately blended with the highest objects of our desire; so that in the pursuit of ultimate and eternal good, we have no need to resign the society of this unwearying friend, whose companionship is a constant refreshment and delight.

I would humbly refer both these subjects to the unlimited goodness of a gracious God. If the beauty and magnificence of the visible creation is not essential to practical utility, let us look upon it as a free gift, liberally offered for the promotion of our happiness; and if poetry does not appear to our finite views to be in reality a part of religion, let us consider how they are associated, and gratefully acknowledge their connexion, rather than presumptuously attempt to separate what the principles of our nature teach us to unite.

We will first speak of the poetry of religion as it is exhibited to the world, in some of the various modes of worship which mark the civil and religious history of man.

Under the terrific rule of tyranny and superstition, religion has ever been the first to suffer and the last to yield; and whether we contemplate the martyr at the stake, singing his triumphant hymns amongst the circling flames; or pursue the silent devotee to the secret recesses of the mountain, or the wilderness, where the bond of Christian brotherhood is strengthened and confirmed by the horrors of an impending fate which threatens to leave that bond alone unbroken, of all that have sweetened and supported life, we see and feel, that the might of mortal suffering, gives even to the most humble victims of cruelty and oppression, a dignity which entitles them to the highest place in the scale of poetical interest.*

In justice to herself, the writer must here observe, in speaking of the poetry of religion, how forcibly she is struck with what some would call the puerility of the task she has undertaken; because this subject necessarily brings under serious observation the all important truths for which we ought to be willing either to live or die as duty may require; and before which all intellectual considerations, even that of poetry itself, vanish into comparative nothingness. She would 10

VOL. II.

So far as poetry is connected with the exercise of fortitude, resignation, and ardent zeal, it is exhibited by the martyr in its holiest character. Suffering even to death, and such a death! yet suffering triumphantly, that the glory of God may shine with additional brightness before the eyes of men, and that unbelievers may behold the majesty and the power of the faith for which he dies. Nor has it been always the man of iron mould, of unshaken nerve, and inflexible resolve, who has died triumphant at the stake. Creatures of delicate and gentle form have been led forth from the hall and the bower, and they too have raised the cry of exultation that they were deemed worthy to set the seal of suffering to the cause they loved. Eyes that had never dwelt save on the fairest page of human life, have gleamed out from amidst the lurid flames, and looked up in calmness and in confidence to the mercy that lies hid beyond the skies; hands whose gentle office had been the constant ministration of tenderness and charity, have been clasped in fervent prayer, until they mingled with the ashes of the sinking pile; brows around which the cherub locks of youth were woven, have borne the fatal ordeal, and betrayed no sign of shrinking from the fiery blast; and voices whose sweet tones were once the natural minstrelsy of happiness and love, have been heard above the crackling embers, and the shouts of brutal acclamation, hymning to heaven the pure melodious strains of a seraphic joy. Fresh from the fount of domestic peace, young, innocent bosoms have been torn to bleed and writhe in the centre of the torturing fire, and trembling with the last throbs of mortal agony, have borne their unflinching testimony to the fervour of their faith. The cry of an agonized parent bursting from the surrounding throng, may have reached the sufferer however hope that her task may be pursued without irreverence, and that she may point out the poetry of religion with a distinct feeling of its weightier and more essential attributes, in the same way that a beholder may expatiate upon the architecture of a cathedral, without reference to the purpose for which the building was originally designed and to which it is still appropriated.

in the flames, the eye that was once the beacon of his hopes may have glanced upon him through the dense and thickening smoke, and thoughts dear as the memory of early love, may have rushed upon his soul even there, bathing it in the tenderness of childhood, and melting down his high resolve, which, but for that sustaining and unquenchable zeal, would yet have sent him forth a worthless wreck upon the troubled ocean of life after the promised haven had been in sight, the pilot near, and the anchor of eternal hope ready to be cast for ever into the foundation which no storms can shake. Yet even here his faith remains immoveable, and he shakes off the lingering weakness of humanity, his joyful spirit already anticipating the unbounded fruition of its promised felicity.

Let us contemplate the awful scene one moment longer. The excitement has subsided; the cry of the merciless spectators is heard no more; the smoking pile becomes one universal ruin; and the living form so lately quivering with the intensity of quickened and agonized sensation, is mingled with the silent dust. Are there not footsteps lingering near that fatal spot? Are there not looks too wild for tears, still fixed upon the white ashes with which the idle breezes are at play? Are there not hearts whose inmost depths are filled with bitterness, and thoughts of vengeance, and dreams of impious daring, and fierce, bold scrutiny of the ways of Providence, and presumptuous questioning if these are the tender mercies of the Most High? Yes; such has ever been the effect of persecution upon the human mind, and never is the infidel so firmly fortified against conviction, as when he contemplates the wrongs and the wretchedness which man, infuriated with a blind and superstitious zeal, inflicts upon his brother.

We turn from this scene of horrors to the aspect presented by religion under a milder form of persecution, or rather under one whose influence is more remote, and we follow a little company of faithful worshippers to their tabernacle in the mountains,