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 connection 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 most serious objection ever advanced against poetry, is that of its not necessarily constituting any part of our religion, and be

ing 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. The 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 our 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, 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 of fered 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

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 do

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 have 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

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 intellectuál considerations, even that of poetry itself, vanish into comparative nothingness. She would 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 attri butes, 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.

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 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 The excitement has submoment longer. sided; 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 wretch

edness 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, where their canopy is the starry sky, and their altar the rude rocks of the wilderness. Upon the summit of a beetling precipice, a sentinel keeps watch, and while he looks to the sombre woods, the hollow caves, or the dim and distant heights, if haply he may discern the movements of an insiduous enemy, hymns of praise and adoration are heard from the congregation in the valley, as, echoing from crag to crag, the deep full anthem of devotion rises on the evening breeze. Then the devout and heartfelt prayer is offered up, that the true Shepherd will vouchsafe to look down upon and visit the scattered remnant of his flock, that his voice may yet call them into safe pastures, and that he will pour out the waters of eternal life, for the support of the feeble, the refreshment of the weary, and the consolation of the "sore distressed."

It is in such scenes and circumstances, that the followers of a persecuted faith become indeed brethren in the fellowship of Christ. Suffering in a common cause, apprehending the same danger, and led on by one purpose, the vital bond of the society extends and lives through all its members. Discord enters not into their communion, for the world is against them, and they can stand under its cruelty and oppression by no other compact than that of Christian love; jealousy pours not its rankling venom into their hearts, for they are hoping to attain a felicity in which all are blest; ambition sows not the seeds of selfishness amongst them, for their reward is one that admits of no monopoly of which all may partake, without diminishing the portion of any: and after this pure and simple worship, how sacred, how fervent is the farewell of the brethren on separating for their distant home. Some have to trace the dubious sands of the sea-beaten shore, some the lonely sheep-track on the mountains, and

some the hollow bed of the wintry torrent, whose thundering waters have worked out for themselves a rugged pathway down the hills; but all are accompanied by the same deep sense of outward danger, and internal peace-all have the same bright stars to light them on their silent way, and the same spiritual help to support their weary steps. They know not but the homes they are seeking may have become a heap of ruins; but they have learned to look for an everlasting habitation where the spoiler may not come. They know not but the sword of persecution may have severed the chain of their domestic happiness; but they feel that every link of that chain can be reunited in a world of peace. They know not but the shadow of destruction may have fallen upon all that beautified and cheered their earthly path; but they are pilgrims to a better land, and they have only to press onward in the simplicity of humble Christians, and the gates of the celestial city will soon be won.

Religion, stigmatized with the world's contempt, and hunted from the earth by the powerful emissaries of public authority, is ever the religion of the heart and the affections. Were it otherwise it could not stand its ground; but dignity and disgrace, temporal enjoyment and temporal suffering, even life and death, become as nothing in comparison with that righteous cause which men feel themselves called upon faithfully to uphold before a disbelieving people, for the glory of God and the benefit of their fellow creatures. If it be a test of the love which a man bears for his brother, that he will lay down his life for him, the test of suffering must also apply to his religion; and pure and devoted must be the love of him, who holds himself at all times in a state of readiness to lay down the last and dearest sacrifice upon the altar of his faith. Yes; that must be love indeed, which overweighs all earthly and natural affections, which separates the mother from her weeping child, the husband from his wife of yesterday, the friends who had been wont to take sweet counsel together, and last, but not least, which tears away the fond endearing thoughts of promised happiness from the heart around which they cling when it beats with the fervour of youth

ful hope, and rejoices in the anticipated sunshine of bright days to come, in which the lovely and the loved may dwell together in peace and safety even upon earth. It is not a light or common love that can thus sever the strongest ties of human life, and fortify the soul not only to endure all that our nature shrinks from, but to resign all that our nature teaches us to hold dear.

From the worship of the heart, we turn to that of the sanctuary-from religion robbed of its external attributes, restrained, and persecuted, and driven inward to the centre of volition, and sealed up in the fountains of spiritual life; to that which powerful nations combine to support, before which suppliant monarchs bow, and which, supreme above the regal sceptre, sends forth its awful and imperious mandates through distant regions of the peopled world.

We enter the magnificent and stately edifice consecrated to the worship of a God no longer partially acknowledged, or reverenced at the risk of life, and we mark the pomp and the ceremonial designed to recommend that worship to the general acceptance of mankind. Through the richly variegated windows, bright beams of golden splendor are glancing on the marble floor, and lighting up the monumental tablets of departed worth. Deeds of heroic virtue, long since forgotten but for that faithful record, are dimly shadowed out upon the tombs, and the sculptured forms that bend in silent beauty over the unbroken slumbers of the dead, point with an awful warning to the inevitable doom of man. Above, around, and beneath us, are the storied pages on which human labour has inscribed the memorial of its power-the barriers raised by art against the encroachments of time-the landmarks graven upon stone, which denote the intellectual progress of past ages. We gaze upon the tessellated aisle, intersected with alternate light and shadow, where the stately columns, terminating in the solemn arch, rise like tall palm trees in the desert plain, whose graceful branches meet in stately grandeur above the head of the wayfaring traveller, while he pauses to bless their welcome shade, and thinks how lovely are the green spots of verdure in the wilderness the fertile islands that beautify a waste and

troubled sea. We listen, and the measured tread of sober feet is the only sound that disturbs the silence of that sacred place-we, listen, till the beating of our own hearts becomes audible, and we almost fear that a "stir-a breath" should break the slumbers of the dead-we listen, and suddenly the tremendous peal of the deep-toned organ bursts upon our ear, and sweet young voices, like a symphony of pure spirits, join the heavenly anthem as it rises in a louder strain of harmony, and echoes though every arch of the resounding pile. The anthem ceases, and the sound of prayer ascends from a thousand hearts, as variously formed as the lips from whence that prayer proceeds, yet all uniting in the worship of one God-all reverentially acknowledging his right to reign and rule with undisputed sway.

Perhaps it is the hour of evening worship, and instead of the bright sunbeams glancing through the many-tinted windows, and penetrating into the distant recesses of the cathedral pile, artificial lights of inferior lustre gleam out here and there, like stars in the midnight sky, making the intervening darkness more palpable and profound. It is the hour when "every soft and solemn influence" is poured most profusely upon the prostrate soul, when the sordid and mercenary cares of the day are over, and religion, like an angel of peace, descends upon the troubled spirit that knows no other resting place than her sanctuary-no other shelter than her brooding wing. It is the hour when all our warmest, purest, and holiest affections gush forth like rills of sweetness and refreshment, watering the verdure of the path of life, and producing fresh loveliness, and renewed delight. It is the hour when prayer is the natural language of the devoted soul, and here the humble penitent is kneeling to implore the pardon promised to the broken and contrite heart-there the parent devoutly asks a blessing upon his family, and his household, upon the wife of his bosom, and the children of his lovehere the poor mendicant bares his pale brow before the eye of heaven, and stands without a blush in that presence to which wealth is no passport, and from which poverty affords no plea for rejection-there the rich arbitrer of magisterial law, humbly bends

his knee, and acknowledges, that without the sanction of divine authority the judgment of man must be vain, and his sentence void-here the miserable outcast from society, glides unnoticed along the silent aisle, and bending beneath the shadow of a marble column, bathes her hollow cheek with tears whose sincerity is unquestioned herethere the gaily habited, admired, and cherished idol of the same society folds her white hands upon her bosom, and feels the deep aching void which religion alone is sufficient to supply-here the rosy lips of cherub infancy lisp the words of prayer, more felt than comprehended amidst the awful grandeur of that solemn scene; and there the wrinkled brow of age is illuminated with the overpowing brightness of anticipated joy, while feeble accents, broken by the tremors of infirmity and pain, tell of the gladness of renovated life.

It is this variety of sight and sound, mingled together into one scene, and united in the same holy purpose, which constitutes a harmony so true to the principles of human nature, as well as to the character and attributes of the Divine Being, and the relation between him and his lowly and erring creatures, that we cannot contemplate such worship without aspiring to partake in its reality-we cannot feel its reality without being raised higher in the scale of spiritual enjoyment.

If, retiring from this scene, we follow the penitent to his secret cell, we behold him lacerating his bleeding limbs, and torturing out what he believes to be the demon of his natural heart; or we watch him through the tedious hours of solitary musing, when the sun is shining upon the walls of his convent, upon the green flowery valley where it stands, and upon the glancing waters of a river whose pure fresh streams glide on with a perpetual melody, through woods, and groves, the verdant beauty of whose mazy labyrinths look like the chosen walks of wandering angels. While the bright sun is shining upon a scene, the pale monk sits brooding over the transgressions of his youth, and counting a never-varying circle of dull beads; or, stooping his cold forehead to the stony floor, he closes every avenue of

rational enjoyment, and believing this immolation of his nature is the sacrifice his God requires, pledges himself to the same abstinence, the same penance, and the same abasement through all the long years of his after-life.

It is not, most assuredly, to the nature of such worship, that we would accord the meed of poetical merit; but to the earnestness, the sincerity, the total dedication of heart, which its votaries display, and which might sometimes bring a blush of shame upon the less devoted followers of a more enlightened faith.

Nor is the simplicity of a less ostentatious form of worship inferior in its accordance with the true spirit of poetry. There is not much to fix the gaze of the beholder in the quiet congregation of a village church, or in the little band of lowly suppliants who bend the knee within the walls of the conventicle, and listen to the impassioned eloquence, bursting in extemporaneous fervour, from the lips of the humble labourer in the vineyard, whose reward is not the gift of sordid gain, but the soul-sustaining consciousness of walking in the ways of truth, and yielding the tribute of obedience where simply to obey is to enjoy. There is not much to interest the mere spectator in such a scene; but there is much to cheer the spirit of the philanthropist in the contemplation of the earnest zeal, the strict integrity, and the devotional fervour which inspires this staunch adherence to what conscience points out as a better way than that established by former ages, supported by national authority, and persevered in by thousands from a blind partiality for old customs and familiar forms.

Far be it from the writer of these pages, to draw invidious comparisons between one creed and another, or to join the public voice which makes destruction rather than edification the object of its tumultuous outcry. Whatever is the subject of popular belief, or the common ground on which mankind concentrate their energies and hopes, it argues the proper exercise of moral feeling, when those who dissent from such belief have the courage and integrity to avow that dissent in the face of a disapproving world—