a FROM THE LIBRARY OF REV. LOUIS FITZGERALD BENSON, D. D. BEQUEATHED BY HIM TO THE LIBRARY OF PRINCETON THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY Dirfaiad Section ?*C4&Z- E?«5P2€©-3iZfS-«31S#5"SiS#S-«2 THE % i || NORTH AMERICAN 1 1 llQUARTERLY MAGAZINE. 1 I I 4 No. XXXIII. JANUARY, 1836. Vol. VII. Yldiu a xp»ve Lines — Serious, - 75 The Poetaster, .......... 76 Sonnets — The Poetical Character. By the Editor, - 80 A Dissertation on Sublimity, ------- jb. The German Poets, - 86 Julia Leorani, the Belle of Rome, ------ 95 Love's Monody. By the Editor, ------ 106 The Captivity of John Howard Payne by the Georgia Guard. By the Editor, ---------- 107 English Sacred Poetry, 124 Epigram. By the Editor, - 159 The Prima Donna: A Tale of Italy, ..... 160 Tedium Vitm. By the Editor, ...... 173 The Origin and Power of Genius. By the Editor, - - 174 History of the Cagots, the Cretins and Goitres of the Alps and Pyrenees. Idem, ........ 134 A Funeral Hymn. By Mrs Moodie, 188 Critical Notices, Paul Ulric ; or the Adventures of an Enthusiast, - - - 189 A History of Medicine, •- 190 Poems; by Mrs L. H. Sigourney, ...... 194 Correspondence et Opuscules inedites de Paul Louis Courier, - 195 Tutti Frutti, 197 Alnwick Castle, with other Poems, ..... jj^ An Introduction to Languages, literary and philosophical, - 198 The Congressional Directory for 1836, ..... 200 The Yankee, a Tale of Common New England Life, - - ib. Annapolis, Md. H. H. Harwood, - 5 Rob : W. Bowie, - 5 Mrs E. M. Waring, 5 Thomas J. Brice, - 5 Rich'd M. Chase, - 5 Mrs Lloyd, - - - 5 A. C. Magruder, - 5 Hon. Wm. Hughlett, 5 Hon. S. G. Osborne, 5 Hon. Henry Page, 5 Hon. J. C. Groome, 5 His Ex. Gov. Veazey, 5 Wm. Fell Johnson, 5 John M. Kenney, - 5 J. H. Culbreth, - - 5 James Iglehart, - - 5 Washington, D. C. Hon. R. H. Golds- borough, S5 Mrs Ann Hill, $2 50 B. Burns, $5 Mrs Cora L. Barton, 5 NEW SUBSCRIBERS. J. Throop, John W. Maury, $2 50 Johnson Eliot, $5 Hon. 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What could I gain by the Cherokees? Every moment I have passed in their country has been a loss to me and an inconvenience. Nothing, which they can offer, can render me service; and men do not contrive treason where they can gain no advantage. I have been swayed, in the very little I have gathered regarding the Cherokees, by a pure and disinterested wish to render my own country service, in leading it to be simply just to theirs; and I have wished to supply myself with such mate- rial, that the fairness, which it might be impossible for me to excite for them, from present legislation, I might myself bestow on them in future history. In party questions I take no interest. I repeat, again and again, I have looked into this matter as a philanthropist, not as a politician. People of Georgia! I appeal to you. I came among you as a fellow-country- man. I came to make myself acquainted with your history and your character, and with the numberless natural beauties, and with the countless riches of your domain. I came under the guarantee of the compact between the sister States of the Republic, which secures to the citizens of each, unobstructed communica- tion with all. I came, relying upon the spirit of hospitality which has distin- guished the South. I have told you how I have been treated. If any member of the Republic has been especially remarkable for her resistance to the intrusion of one State upon the rights of another, it is Georgia. How then can I believe that she will uphold her officers, who have in the most glaring and the coarsest manner, been guilty of such an intrusion? I do not, therefore, identify the State with the wrongs I have received. But under these wrongs, I cannot again enter the State until its people do themselves the justice to tell me that I have judged them fairly, in believing they feel themselves insulted by the insults which have been heaped, in their name, upon the independence of a neighbouring power, and upon the Constitution, our common protector, — in the person of a stranger, a countryman, and a friend. My fellow-citizens throughout my Native Land! To all of you, alike, I ap- peal, for there is not one in our Republic to whom this case is not of vital import. It is not a party, it is an universal, question, and I doubt not but the Chief Magis- trate of the Republic, whose government has been prophaned by being made by- subalterns, to seem the source of the wrong, will be foremost in declaring its enormity. Insulting inquisitions, — domiciliary visits, — midnight intrusions into the sanctuary of homes, — seizures by armed men of private papers, — the impri- sonment and the secreting of citizens, without disclosure either of the charge or of the accuser, — contempt of the boundaries of States, — mockery of the hallowed privileges of the Constitution, — all these, the worst deeds of the basest despotism, — have been perpetrated already in the instance now before you, and if you do not rise, like men, and declare such things shall not be suffered, not a citizen among you can say he sleeps in safety. This is no idle declamation. It has happened to me, and it may happen to any one of you: the rubicon has been passed. But think not of me: think of yourselves, think of those most dear to you, to whom you would bequeath the freedom you inherited. Not for personal chagrin, but for the honour of our country, I will tell you, — and, Oh! let not pos- terity echo the assertion as a prophecy! — if tamely you look on, and see these things unmoved, — I care not for proscriptions nor for bayonets; neither the Guards of Georgia, nor the denunciations of reckless, wily, and insidious hire- English Sacred Poetry. [January, 1 fright me into silence, — fori will tell you, and with my latest breath: you behold these things, you arc only slaves, heartless, abject slaves, oithy of the immortal ancestors, who bravely fought, and nobly died to eir country free." Such is the earnest appeal — perhaps the last — of a most amiable, gift- ed and deserving man ; and such have been his trials and persecutions among a lawless horde unable to appreciate his excellencies of heart or mind, while his near relative — a mere man of the world — a common man — riots in affluence acquired by chance and enjoyed without dignity or honour. Terrible, indeed, is the poet's lot in a land like ours — the em- pire of utilitarians, stockjobbers, schemers, fanatics and impostors. His bread must be earned by the severest of all possible toil — and yet he must be told that at the best, he is a beneficiary of fools, who boast of their charity in refusing to pay their just and rightful debts, and the butt of insolent knaves who exult in their only talent — the ability to black- guard and blaspheme. When evils accumulate, he must bear them alone and unaided ; when a gleam of prosperity glances across his dark- ened path, his sunshine friends rush out to bask in its radiance and in- sult the giver. On the return of Mr Payne to his Native Land, he was feasted and toasted and biographized, until the modest man sickened over the selfish display ; but the novelty passed — new opportunities of Apician enjoyment occurred — and the American dramatist was super- ceded by the foreign mountebank. Then his talents were questioned bv those who had no talents, and his feelings were outraged by the au- tochthones — the earthborn slaves of animal desires and grovelling pro- pensities. The only reward he ever received from the Land of his Birth was called public charity, and native sycophants joined foreign miscreants in ridiculing his pretensions and assailing his character. Then he went forth alone — on a lonely and perilous journey, confiding in his lofty cause, and resolved to depend solely upon himself. And how many have been just or generous enough to aid him in his noble design ? Who, of all who swilled the festival wine in his honour, on his first ar- rival on the western shores, has arisen to vindicate the wronged and justify the innocent when falsely accused ? Not one. When the feast ended, the sentiments of friendship expired, and the guest was forgot- ten. We — (and the fact is proclaimed with a just though not ostenta- tious pride) — we are the only one who have remembered the friend we never flattered, and vindicated the wronged, whose prosperity we never partook. Our duty, our pleasure, is fulfilled. In absence and in dan- ger — under trial, solitude and calumny — we have espoused an unhon- oured but a noble cause — and now we have no motive to sorrow or re- gret. The wrongs of John Howard Payne have been unfolded to our countrymen, and if not by the envious living, yet by an impartial pos- terity will thev be remembered and avenged. ENGLISH SACRED POETRY. It has been said that the flowers of Parnassus cannot thrive in the garden of Religion, that the soil of Paradise is unfit for the rearing of these tender plants : and that they can grow only in the gory plains of war, or the fairy scenes of fiction. An attempt to enforce or illustrate the Bible with the graces of poetry discovers, in the estimation of many 1836.] English Sacred Poetry. 125 critics, a taste deplorably vitiated and depraved. Others reject it with abhorrence, and are almost shocked at it as impious. Now it is true that the invocation of Apollo, or the Maids of Helicon, at the commencement of a christian poem, would not only be impious, but absurd and disgusting in the highest degree. Examples may, in- deed, be adduced from admired "Devotion's bards," wherein the names of the heathen deities, or some mythological allusions, have been inju- diciously introduced. In that fine fragment, for example, of Kirk White, in which Satan is represented as giving his " bold compeers" an account of the failure of his attempt upon Christ, and of the sad disas- ters which befel him, in consequence of that attempt, we meet with an instance of this kind. " The sidelong volley met my swift career, And smote me earthward. Jove himself might quake At such a fall !" Here is evidently a gross impropriety, for, to say nothing of the in- troduction of a mere imaginary deity in an affair of such importance, he who had once been an angel of light could not be supposed to be igno- rant that Jove was nothing more than a name. Besides, the way in which Jove is mentioned seems to intimate that he was a being of supe- riour prowess to Satan himself, which the prince of the infernal powers, he who had dared to cope with Omnipotence, could not be very ready to allow. But does it hence follow that the subject itself was ill chosen, and incapable of poetical ornament without having recourse to classical fiction? This question receives its best answer in the poem itself; in the boldness of its imagery, and the beautiful simplicity of its alle- gories. The abovementioned objection to sacred poetry was, perhaps, first started by Boileau. He tells us, " De la foi d'un Chretien les mysteres terribles D'ornamens egayez ne sont point susceptibles." The Christian faith's dread mysteries refuse The ornamental trappings of the muse. In a country where levity and fashionable folly prevailed as they then did in France — and at a time, too, when religion was buried under the clouds of mysticism, and everything sacred was viewed with a super- stitious dread — such a declaration was not astonishing, especially as it comes from a person who, with all his wit and learning, had very ina- dequate views of the mysteries of which he was speaking, and who, it is to be feared, left the world very little better than he found it. But that Dr Johnson could entertain such an opinion is more surprising. He thus objects to devotional poetry in a strain similar to that of Boileau : " The paucity of its topics enforces perpetual repetition, and the sanc- tity of the matter rejects the ornaments of figurative diction." Is it possible that any man who has taken an ample survey of the Divine per- fections, or cast an eye over the diversified landscape of Divine good- ness, which is exhibited in the recovery of fallen man, can talk of pau- city of topics ? Is it possible that any one who has read the rapturous strains of Isaiah, or the sublime songs of Jesse's son, can say that reli- gion rejects the ornaments of figurative diction ? Though Dr Johnson was a man of gigantic talents, and a Colossus of philological learning, yet he was not distinguished for liberality of sentiment, or fervour of 126 English Sacred Poetry. [January, devotion; and with Cowper, who certainly excelled him in both these respects, we question the correctness of his taste. To make Divine truth palatable to those who have a radical dislike to it, is, indeed, out of the power of language or of poetry. They cannot desire to see God set forth under his various attributes of power, wisdom, justice, or even of mercy. They cannot, with complacency, read anything which treats immediately of the invaluable blessings of salvation ; and it must be re- membered that for such persons, chiefly, Johnson was writing. If he had perused with a candid and unbiassed mind, what Cowley, Watts, and even Blackmore have said upon this subject, he might, probably, have modified his opinion, or, at least, have spoken with more candour. After a deserved eulogium which he passes on the second of these writers, as a scholar and a divine, he will hardly be thought to have done justice to him as a poet, when he ranks him among those with whom youth and ignorance may be safely placed. In the Horae Lyricae, there are some pieces which would have added to the laurels of the moralist himself. Among the rigidly pious part of mankind, there are many who have conceived such an irreconcilable aversion to the enchantments of poetry, that even Truth herself meets with but a cold reception from them, if arrayed in the habiliments of verse. They consider religion as of too grave a character to appear without disparagement in that fanciful attire. They can hardly acquit of levity and impertinence those who endeavour to paint her amiable features in the lively colours of poetical diction, and, at best, they deem all such endeavours no better than trifling and puerile amusements. This too general dislike of poetry among such persons arises, per- haps, in a considerable measure, from the unworthy use to which it has been converted by irreligious men, though, in many, it may be owing to a natural deficiency of taste and sensibility. It is said of Pope, that though his ear was eminently well tuned in judging the harmony of numbers, he had so mean an idea of music, as to think it below the dignity of human nature. It is requisite, therefore, that a man should have a taste for any art or science, before he presumes to give his judg- ment upon it. Let not, then, those " foes to song," who are destitute of poetical qualifications, reprove their neighbours who are occasionally inclined to take a draught at the fountain of the Muses. That fountain has contracted no inherent contamination from the polluted lips which, in different ages, have sipped its stream : nor are its waters the less pure, because they have sometimes flowed through the channels of pro- fligacy and vice. Even the consecrated censers of old were not unfit- ted for holy uses, by having been once made the receptacles of unhal- lowed fire, or by having passed through the hands of profane rebels: they needed only to be cleansed and fashioned anew, in order to serve those purposes for which they were originally intended. The pearl of truth has not lost any of its brilliancy by having been once covered with the dust of errour or superstition. And though the divine art of poetry has been too often employed to kindle the incense of flattery to the idol of human power, or to fan the flames of licentiousness in the youthful and inexperienced breast, yet poetry itself remains the same as ever. True, the Muse has had cause " to blush at her degenerate sons, Retain'd by sense to plead her filthy cause, To raise the low, to magnify the mean, And subtilize the gross into refin'd." 1836.] English Sacred Poetry. 127 The heathens had the example and countenance of their supposed gods in all this, and are therefore entitled to pity as well as censure. But what excuse will be alleged for the improprieties of modern writers, who were born in a land on which Revelation sheds its benign influence 1 " Can powers of genius exorcise their page, And consecrate enormity with song?" These writers have not been content to follow the footsteps of their heathen brethren. In all the compositions of the Roman and Grecian bards we, for the most part, find a reverential regard paid to their dei- ties, such as they were. But these men have often dared to dart the arrows of sarcastic wit against Heaven itself. Nor are they to be ex- empted from censure, who have given loose to their pens in invective, slanderous abuse, or sycophantic flattery. But though this divine art has been prostituted to the vilest purposes, shall we, on account of these inexpiable stains Condemn the Muse that knows her dignity 1 ?" Rather let us endeavour to restore poetry to that station which it origi- nally possessed. Too long has it worn the insignia of the Prince of Darkness ; it is time that it should return to a higher service. That the use of poetry was divine, can be questioned by none who are ac- quainted with the Sacred Scriptures. There we find specimens of exalted composition, and touches of inimitable skill, written ages before the names of Castalia, Aganippe, or the Nine were known to song. Bold and inconsiderate, indeed, must he be who ventures indiscrimi- nately to censure that pleasing method of conveying instruction which the Holy Spirit himself has seen fit so frequently to employ. What is better calculated to rouse the dying embers of devotion, and to kindle the flame of zeal, than the enraptured voice of melody ? What is bet- ter suited to elevate us above the grovelling scenes of time and sense, and to transport us to those regions where we shall sing forever the " song of Moses and the Lamb ?" Let us not be understood to insi- nuate that Christianity requires the recommendation of verse, or the elegancies of language. We only lament the perversion of an art, which, under the controul of reason, is eminently calculated to pro- mote the cause of religion and virtue. The most ancient compositions which have reached us (with the exception of the Bible, part of which was written many centuries be- fore any other writings now extant,) are upon subjects connected with religion. In those early days, the works of the poets were the only repositories of divine knowledge ; and they were looked up to by the credulous populace, with the most profound veneration and awe. What the prophets were in the Jewish church, the poets were considered in the heathen world. Hence, in ancient times, " The sacred name " the sacred name Of prophet and of poet was the same. Poetry was originally instituted for holy uses ; but in progress of time, as the light of Revelation gradually ceased to shine, it assumed a new character, and like most other institutions of Divine appointment, was counterfeited for other purposes. For what is there in the worship 128 English Sacred Poetry. [January, of Jehovah which has not been imitated? Has not the evil spirit his temples, his priests, his sacrifices, and his oracles? Has he not his worshippers in every land ? In this system of adoration, music and poetry have always borne a very prominent part, and are attended with no inconsiderable effect; but how superiour, even in this respect, is sa- cred poetry to profane ? " Where shall we trace through all the page profane, A livelier pleasure and a purer source Of innocent delight, than the fair book Of Holy Truth presents? For ardent youth The sprightly narrative ; for years mature The moral document, in sober robe Of grave philosophy array'd?" This " Book of Truth" contains materials at once the most curious and instructive. Are we charmed with the histories of past ages, and the narrations of extraordinary events ? There we are not only led to converse with the Antediluvian Sages, and are made acquainted with the manners and customs of the " world before the flood :" but our cu- riosity is still further gratified by an account of the creation of the world itself ; in which all is wonderful — wonderful without a parallel — and yet conformable to the strictest laws of nature and verity. " 0, scenes surpassing fable, and yet true !" Scenes — in comparison of which the fictitious dreams of the metamor- phoses, and the vain Theogony of Hesiod, ivere they true, would be but uninteresting tales. At the mere intimation of Jehovah's will, a con- fused and undigested chaos becomes exquisite symmetry ! Heteroge- neous substances are divided with infinite skill, and reciprocally ope- rate upon each other with the most beneficial influence to the whole ! What a noble subject would this be for a true poet ! Here the liveliest genius might expatiate without transgressing the boundaries of truth. The Poet should, indeed, always remember that he stands on holy ground, and that he is not wantonly to rush beyond its limits, to cull flowers uncongenial with the nature of the soil. It is not necessary he should do so, even for poetical effect. " There is not a greater lie in all the poets," observes Cowley, " than that lying is essential to good Poetry." On subjects unconnected with religion, it is true, that this assertion needs modification. A simple statement of the occurrences of common life could hardly excite that liveliness of feeling which it is the peculiar business of poetry to produce. Scenes of dull uniformity must, therefore, be presented under new aspects, and through the me- dium of exaggeration, and be enlivened by the enchanting hues of fic- tion. But the christian poet needs not have recourse to such expe- dients ; in the Sacred Word he will find an inexhaustible magazine of po- etical elements. Where shall we meet with a detail so affecting as the simple history of Joseph? What can be more surprising than the events in Egypt, and the passage through the Red Sea? What aston- ishing instances of power and providential care mark every step of the Journey through the Wilderness ! — Nor is the elevated language in which these events have been celebrated less worthy of admiration. What are all the feats of Homer's gods and heroes, compared with the wondrous deeds enumerated in the Song of Moses ? and what is the language in which they are expressed, to that of the sacred penman ? 1836.] English Sawed Poetry. 129 This triumphant song is not only far more sublime than any uninspired writing, but likewise by far the most ancient poetical effusion with which we are acquainted. The retreat of the ten thousand Greeks has always been considered a most arduous enterprize, and is immortalized by the pen of one of the most elegant writers of antiquity ; but when viewed in comparison with the exodos of Israel from Egypt into Ca- naan, it loses half its interest. Nor is the sacred soil less fertile in subjects for the epic than for the lyric muse. Who is better calculated to be the hero of a poem than Moses or Joshua, Sampson or David ? What achievements so glorious as those which they performed, who " through faith subdued kingdoms, wrought righteousness, obtained promises, stopped the mouths of lions, quenched the violence of fire, escaped the edge of the sword, out of weakness were made strong, waxed valiant in fight, turned to flight the armies of the aliens ?" The eventful life of the son of Jesse would especially furnish a most noble subject for a divine poem. The frag- ment of the Davideis, imperfect as it is, and marked with numerous blemishes, affords a specimen of what might be done by a man equal to such a task, and who would devote himself to its performance. It is true that Milton has chosen the loftiest and most august theme of all ; and has built upon it such a monument, as abundantly proves the infinite advantages which a bard, enlightened by Revelation, has over the most exalted of the heathen poets. While, then, we have the works of Milton, (to say nothing of the poetical parts of Scripture itself,) why should we endeavour to persuade ourselves that divine subjects are unsuitable to the genius of poetry ? Of the drama, also, which has in every age been admired, the Sacred Volume affords some beautiful specimens. The Book of Job is much of the nature of a drama. It was in all probability written in verse : and it certainly contains some of the finest and most poetical ideas that language can express. Nothing can equal the dignity of the Almighty's speech from the whirlwind. It is the finest part of the noblest and most ancient poem in the world. "Its grandeur is so much above all other poetry as thunder is louder than a whisper." With what elegance and propriety scriptural facts may be clothed in a dramatic dress, may be seen by consulting Racine and Corneille, or Croly's Salathiel or Millman's Sacred Tragedies. It is a subject of doubt among many whether works of fiction, upon religious subjects, be they prose or verse, tend to promote the interests of religion. If they contain nothing that is wild, extravagant, or roman- tic — if they preserve throughout an awful regard to the Divine Majesty, and inculcate the principles of morality, we do not see why they may not be read with profit and advantage. Such writings derive counte- nance from Scripture itself. The Book of Job, just mentioned, is a pa- rable, founded upon truth; for, probably, no person will say that all the conferences of Job and his friends, were carried on in the very form and words in which they are related to us. It is sufficient that the ge- neral facts be strictly and literally true : as to the form and manner of their relation, they are such as seemed best to the compiler, under the infallible guidance of Inspiration. The same may be also said of those beautiful little poems, the Canticles; though there is undoubtedly a su- blime and significant meaning under the veil of the exterior imagery. Again ; are we pleased with the plaintive strains of sorrow and the effu- sions of real grief? Let us read the monody of the "sweet singer of Israel," on Jonathan and Saul; or his passionate exclamations on hear- VOL. VII. — NO. xxxiii. 17 130 English Sacred Poetry. [January, ing of the death of his son, his favourite son Absalom. Let us peruse the melancholy pages of Jeremiah's Lamentations, of which one would conceive that every letter was written with a tear, every word the sound of a broken heart. Unfeeling, indeed, must that breast be which does not waken into a sympathetic emotion! Do we look for boldness of figure and majesty of description ? Let us attend to the flights of the Psalms, the magnificence of the Prophets, and the loftiness of the Apo- calyptic visions. Is there anything comparable, in any uninspired writer, to St John's description of the angel? He has introduced the most surprising phenomena in nature, as the accoutrements of this au- gust personage. His raiment is one of those vast aerial sheets which mantle the horizon, and his diadem is a rainbow : his aspect is even still more sublime; " his face was as it were the sun;" " his feet were as pillars of fire ;" his attitude is majestic and commanding; "he set his right foot upon the sea, and his left foot upon the earth." Who with- out wonder can contemplate this representation ! how much does it ex- ceed in grandeur all the fables of heathenism or the creatures of modern fancy ! But to select all the elevated passages of the Bible would require a volume. A vein of dignified simplicity runs through every part of it. From its pages some of the most eminent English poets have borrowed not only ideas, but many of their happiest expressions. Nothing is more favourable to the cultivation of poetical genius than the study of the Prophets. This is far better than following the counsel of Horace, ' turn over, day and night, the Grecian models.' How greatly did an intimate acquaintance with the songs of Sion contribute to the unrival- led excellence of the prince of all poets ! That he had such a predilec- tion, he himself has told us : and surely that such a genius should derive his highest gratification from the Oracles of Truth, ought to remove every prejudice and convince us that religion may be associated with the grandest displays of genius and the purest emanations of feeling and taste. But Milton, though the greatest, is not the only poet who has acknow- ledged the Giver of Genius — the Fountain of Feeling. Throughout the works of the English bards are scattered many beautiful hymns of de- votion and anthems of triumph ; and it is now our purpose to prove that the truest religion and most intense adoration of heart have often dwelt in the bosoms of those who have been branded by sectaries and bigots as libertines and atheists. There never lived a man of genius who was not in his secret soul devout, however much he might affect to be an in- fidel. Our review, in proof of this, must be brief, but we hope it will unite pleasure with instruction. It enters not into our present design to present any examples of de- votional poetry from living bards ; and, therefore, this article may seem to conclude abruptly ; but, in our rapid retrospect, we hope to delight the reader with many beautiful offerings of Genius on the altar of Religion. No sooner had England emerged from barbarism, oppres- sion and want, than the faculties of her sons expanded, and, imbibing the influence of surrounding scenery and circumstances, their songs, which before had expressed mere animal passions and superstitions of the lowest kind, assumed a dignified and exalted character. We design to show the rapid increase of these powers, which, while they refine the heart, enlarge the sphere of intellectual enjoyment, and ennoble the human mind. We begin with the admirable Geoffrey Chaucer, ' The Morning Star of English Poetry,' although, in too many instan- ces, he has polluted the stream of verse with indecencies, for which 1836.] English Sacred Poetry. 131 the manners of the times offer some excuse. He composed two pieces of Sacred Poetry — The Lamentacion of Mary Magdaleyne, and a Ba- lade in Commendation of our Lady. These, it is true, cannot compare with his Canterbury Tales and other less serious productions ; yet they contain passages of considerable beauty, and prove that, although the former were more congenial to his taste, this satirist of the monks and their delusions was no foe to religion ; nor was he insensible to its claims upon Poetry, or to the charms which the Muse was capable of casting around it. The three following Stanzas are selected from The Lamentacion of Mary Magdaleyne : — " Within myne herte is impressed ful sore His royal forme, his shappe, his semelynesse, His porte, his chere, his goodnesse evermore, His noble persone with al gentylnesse; He is the welle of al parfytnesse, The very redemer of al mankynde ; Him love I best with herte, soule, and mynde. In his absence my paynes ful bytter be, Right wel I may it fele nowe inwardly ; No wonder is though they hurte or slee me, They cause me to crye so rewfully ; Myne herte oppressed is so wonderfully Onely for him, whiche is so bright of blee : Alas ! I trowe I shal him neuer se. My joye is translate ful farre in exile, My myrthe is chaunged into paynes colde, My life I thynke endureth but awhyle, Anguysshe and payne is that I beholde : Wherfore my handes thus I wringe and folde, Into this grave I loke, I cal, I pray; Dethe remayneth, and lyfe is borne away." To Chaucer succeeded John Lydgate. He was a priest and a monk of the Benedictine Abbey of Bury, in Suffolk, and an author of very varied powers, as he seems to have written ballads, hymns, ludi- crous stories, legends, romances, and allegories, with equal facility, but not always (if we may judge from the following specimen) with equal felicity ; — these verses are selected from his CASTELL OF LABOURE. " God knoweth playne and clerely The Aungelles shall theyr trumpettes Mannes mynde, thought, and courage; blowe, For he by his grace ineffably Callynge man to the Jugement; Made hym like to his owne image- Than every man full well shall knowe Sholdest thou not than do hym homage, How that he here his lyfe hath spent. Wiche hathe the gyven so grete a With an hygh voyce that Lorde omni- benefyce, potent Passynge all other in accauntage, Shall call my servauntes wt hym to That is, the realme of Paradyse? dwell; ****** The badde all pensyf-woo-and dolent, Perpetually shall be dampnied to hell." From the title of some of Skelton's works, we infer that he was Poet Laureate (which, in those days, was an Academical Degree) to King Henry VIII. * He wrote three short Sacred Poems, entitled * Gifford says 'he was perhaps the best scholar of his day, and displays, on many occasions, strong powers of description, and a vein of poetry.' 132 English Sacred Poetry. [January, Prayers ' To the Father of Heauen — To the Second Parsone — To the Holy Ghost.' The first we present to our readers. A FRAVER TO THE FATHER OF HEAUEN. " O radiant Luminary of light interminable, Celestial Father, potenciall God of night, O Heauen and Earthe, O Lorde incomperable, Of all perfections the essenciall, most perfighte ; ( ) Maker of mankind, that formd day and night, Whose power imperial comprehendeth euery place, Mine heart, my minde, my thought, my hole delight, Is after this lyfe to see thy glorious face. Whose magnificence is incomprehensible, Al arguments of reason which far doth excede; Whose deite doutles is indivisible, From whom al goodnes and vertuc doth proccde ; Of thy support al creatures have nede. Assist me, good Lord, and graunt me of thy grace To line to thy pleasure in word, thought, and dede, And after this lyfe to see thy glorious face." The unfortunate Earl of Surrey, so celebrated as an Amatory Poet, translated Ecclesiastes and certain Psalms — but, as they are long and unequal, we shall not present our readers with an extract from any portion of them. Sir Thomas Wyat, who also flourished at the same period, put into ' Englishe Meter certayn Psalmes chosen out of the Psalter of David, commonlye called the vii Penytentiall Psalmes.' From these we only make one brief extract, by which the reader will be enabled to form a judgment of the execution of the whole. " Lord, heare my praier, and let my crye passe Unto thee, Lord, without impediment ; Do not from me tourne thy mercyful face, Unto myselfe leauynge my gouernment : In time of trouble and adversytye, Inclyne unto me thyne ear and thyne entente." Such were the principal Poets who struck the Harp of Zion in Eng- land, previous to the reign of Elizabeth. Their works were charac- terized by the defects of their age, and the two hundred years, which this period comprehends, offer but few poetic gems worthy of present- ing to the admirers of Sacred Poesy. The next aera commences with the immortal Edmund Spenser, the most fanciful of English Poets, whose ' Fairy Queen' still reigns su- preme, notwithstanding its tedious allegory. He has, however, stronger and more pleasing claims on our attention, as the author of some of the finest religious poetry in our language. His Hymns of Heavenly Love and of Heavenly Beauty abound with the most splendid thoughts and sublime imagery, clothed in language worthy of so ennobling a theme ; and, although it is probable that they have not at any time excited so intense an interest as his imaginative verses, yet they deserve, (if con- sidered merely as Poems,) an equal share of praise, and, we think, cannot fail to elicit from every reader the warmest feelings of admira- tion towards the lofty genius that composed them. We select the fol- lowing stanzas from the first-named, regretting that our limited space precludes the possibility of giving the whole. 1836.] English Sacred Poetry. 133 AN HYMNE OF HEAVENLY LOVE. " Love ! lift me up upon thy golden wings From this base world unto thy Heavens hight, Where I may see those admirable things Which there thou workest by thy soveraine might, Farre above feeble reach of earthly sight, That I thereof an heavenly Hymne may sing Unto the God of love, high Heaven's King. Before this world's great frame, in which al things Are now contained, found any being, place, Ere flitting Time could wag his eyas wings About that mighty bound which doth embrace The rolling spheres, and parts their houres by space, That High Eternal Powre which now doth move In all these things, raoved in it selfe by love. It loved itselfe, because itselfe was faire, (For faire is loved) and of itselfe begot, Like to itselfe, his eldest Sonne and Heire, Eternall, pure, and void of sinfull blot, The firstling of his joy, in whom no jot Of Loves dislikes or pride was to be found, Whome He therefore with equall honour crownd. With him he raignd before all time prescribed In endlesse glory and immortall might, Together with that Third from them derived, Most wise, most holy, most almightie spright; Whose kingdomes throne no thoughts of earthly wight Can comprehend, much lesse my trembling verse With equall words can hope it to reherse. Yet 0, most blessed Spirit! pure Lampe of Light, Eternall Spring of Grace, and Wisedom trew, Vouchsafe to shed into my barren spright Some little drop of thy celestiall dew, That may my rymes with sweet infuse embrew, And give me words equall unto my thought To tell the marveiles by thy mercie wrought. To them* the Heavens illimitable height (Not this round Heaven, which we from hence behold Adornd with thousand Lamps of burning light, And with ten thousand gemmes of shyning gold) He gave as their inheritance to hold, That they might serve him in eternall blis, And be partakers of those joyes of his. There they in their trinall triplicities About Him wait, and on His will depend, Either with nimble wings to cut the skies, When He them on His messages doth send, Or His owne dread Presence to attend ; Where they behold the glorie of His Light, And caroll hymnes of Love both day and night. Both day and night is unto them all one, For He His beames doth unto them extend ; * The Angels. 134 English Sacred Poetry. [January, The Darknesso there appeareth never none, Ne hath their day, ne hath their hlisse an end: But there their termelesse time in pleasure spend ; Ne ever should their happinesse decay, Had not they dard their Lord to disobay." In the same admirable strain the inspired poet goes on to depict the sufferings of our Redeemer, and concludes the Hymn by the following impressive adjuration to the reader: — " Then let thy flinty hart that feels no paine Empierced be with pittifull remorse, And let thy bowels bleede in every vaine At sight of His most sacred heavenly corse, So tome and mangled with malicious forse ; And let thy soule, whose sins His sorrows wrought, Melt into teares and grone in grieved thought. With sence whereof, whilest so thy softened spirit Is inly toucht and humbled with meeke zeale Through meditation of his endlesse merit, Lift up thy mind to th' Author of thy weale, And to His soveraine mercie doe appeale: Learne Him to love that loved thee so deare, And in thy brest his blessed image beare. With all thy hart, with all thy soule and mind, Though must Him love, and His beheastes embrace ; All other Loves with which the world doth blind, Weake fancies, and stirre up affections base, Thou must renounce and utterly displace, And give thyselfe unto Him full and free, That full and freely gave Himselfe to thee. Then shalt thou feele thy spirit so possessed, And ravisht with devouring great desire Of His dear selfe, that shall thy feeble breast Inflame with Love, and set thee all on fire With burning zeale through every part entire, That in no earthly thing thou shalt delight But in His sweet and amiable sight. Thenceforth all world's desire will in thee dye, And all Earthe's Glorie on which men do gaze Seeme durt and dross in thy pure-sighted eye, Compard to that celestiall beauties blaze Whose glorious beames all fleshly sense doth daze* With admiration of their passing light, Blinding the eyes and lumining the sprite. Then shall thy ravisht soul inspired bee With heavenly thoughts faire above humane skil, And thy bright radiant eyes shall plainely see Th' Idee of His pure glorie present still Before thy face, that all thy spirits shall fill With sweet enragement of celestiall Love, Kindled thro' sight of those faire things above." * Dazzle. 183G.] English Sacred Poetry. 135 Of Sir Philip Sidney, that true pattern of a perfect gentleman, who, to the accomplishments of a scholar and a courtier, and the romantic gallantry of a Preux Chevalier, united a fervency of devotion which the modern fine gentleman affects to consider derogatory to his rank and fashion, and whose example incontestably proves that religious feeling, so far from being incompatible with those qualities, is calcu- lated to add to their lustre, and to confer on them a dignity which they could only derive from such a source, it is difficult to speak in such terms as belong not to the most extravagant panegyric. His sister, whose name is associated with his own in all his literary productions, appears to have shared with him those qualities which were more peculiarly suited to her sex, and to have been also endued with no common genius. A Version of the Psalms, the joint produc- tion of this noble pair, which had hitherto remained in manuscript, has been lately published ; and so elegant and spirited are the tone and style in which it is written, that we cannot but wonder that it was suffered to remain so long in obscurity. We select two of these Psalms in proof of the opinion which we have offered, and we also add a third, in illus- tration of the quaint manner, which, in a greater or less degree, in- fected all the compositions of the age. Psalm XLVIII. The folk of Abraham's God to frend; Hee, greatest Prince, greate princes All people, to Jehovah bring gaines, A glad applause of clapping hands; Princes, the shields that earth defend. To God a song of triumph sing, Who high and highlie feared, stands, Psalm XCIII. Of all the Earth sole ruling King. Clothed with state, and girt with might, From whose almightie grace it growes Monarck-like Jehova raignes; That nations, by our power opprest, He who Earthes foundations pight,* On foote on humbled countries goes, Pight at first, and yet sustaines. Who Jacob's honor loved best, He whose stable throne disdaines An heritage for us hath chose. Motions shock and ages flight: He who endles one remaines, There past hee by: hark, how did ring One, the same, in changelesse plight. Harmonious aire with trumpett's sound; Rivers, yea, though rivers rore, Praise, praise our God : praise, praise Roring though sea-billowes rise; our King, Vex the deepe, and breake the shore, Kings of the World, your Judgments Stronger are thou, Lord of skies, sound, Firme and true thy promise lies, With skilfull tunes his praises sing. Now and still as heretofore; Holy worshipp never dies On sacred throne, not knowing end, In thy Howse, where we adore. For God the King of Kingdoms raignes, The following affords an instance of an Acrostic Psalm, and we therefore give it as a curiosity : P raise him that aye H is mercies are R emaines the same: E xposed to all : A 11 tongues display L ike as the word J ehovah's fame. O nee he doth give, S ing all that share R old in record T his earthly ball, D oth tyme outlyve. * Pitched. 136 English Sacred Poetry. [January, Sir Walter Raleigh inherited much of the gallant spirit and lite- rary talent of Sidney ; but the unfortunate circumstances of his life have cast a melancholy shade over his memory, which, however, serves only to deepen the interest naturally felt in whatever relates to so la- mented a victim of state policy and intrigues. Many charming effu- sions of his Muse, which evince firstrate poetical talent, are to be met with, scattered through the publications of his time ; these have been collected and published, together with choice selections from the best productions of his less known contemporaries, in a neat little volume, entitled ' Specimens of the Earlier English Poets,' from which we have extracted the following beautiful Hymn, which is equally creditable to the piety and poetical powers of its author ; " Rise, my Soul, with thy desires to Heaven, And with divinest Contemplation, use Thy time, where Time's Eternity is given, And let vain thoughts no more thy thoughts abuse ; But down in darkness let them lie; So live thy better, let thy worse thoughts die ! And thou, my soul, inspired with holy flame, View and review with most regardfull eye That holy cross whence thy Salvation came, On which thy Saviour and thy sin did die! For in that sacred object is much pleasure, And in that Saviour is my life, my treasure. To thee, Jesu, I direct my eyes, To thee my hands, to thee my humble knees ; To thee my heart shall offer sacrifice, To thee my thoughts, who my thoughts only sees : To thee myself, myself and all I give; To thee 1 die, to thee I only live. The following elegant paraphrase of the wellknown and universally admired Dialogue between Horace and Lydia is so beautifully and ap- propriately turned, that we cannot refrain from extracting it. A DIALOGUE BETWIXT GOD AND THE SOUL. Soul. For whom my Soul would die, might " Whilst my Soul's Eye beheld no she light, Leave them her immortality. But what streamed from thy gracious sight, God. To me the World's greatest King I and some few pure souls conspire, Seemed but a little vulgar thing. And burn both in a mutual fire, For whom I'd die once more, ere they Should miss of Heaven's eternal day. God. Whilst thou provdst true, and that in Soul. thee But, Lord, what if I turn again, I could glass all my Deity; And with an adamantine Chain How glad did 1 from Heaven depart, Lock me to thee? What if I chase To find a lodging in thy heart ! The world away to give thee place ? God. Soul. Then though these Souls in whom I joy Now Fame and Greatness bear the Are Seraphim, thou but a toy, sway, A foolish toy, yet once more 1 ('T is they that hold my prison's key) Would with thee live, and for thee die!" 1836.] English Sacred Poetry. 137 Joshua Silvester, surnamed by bis contemporaries ' The Silver- tongued,' is well known as the translator of ' Du Bartas' Weeks and Works,' and by the ridicule which Dryden cast upon him, which has condemned him to an obscurity and contempt by no means merited. The following stanzas from his Poem, entitled 'All is not Gold that Glitters,' contain good thoughts, happily but quaintly expressed : TO RELIGION. "Religion, thou life of life, The proud their pride, the false their How worldlings, that prophane thee fraud, rife, The thief his theft, her filth the bawd, Can wrest thee to their appetites ! The impudent his impudence. How Princes, who their Power deny, Pretend thee for their Tyranny, Ambition under thee aspires, And people, for their false de'ights! And Avarice under thee desires, Sloth under thee her ease assumes, Under thy sacred name, all over, Lux under thee all overflows, The vicious all their vices cover, Wrath under thee outrageous grows, The insolent their insolence, All Evil under thee presumes." Drayton, the author of that celebrated Poem, 'The Polyolbion,' wrote three Divine Poems, entitled 'Noah's Flood' — 'Moses, his Birth and Miracles, in Three Books' — and ' David and Goliath.' There are very few lines in all three that are not to be greatly admired for their strength and sublimity ; but, as our space is limited, we must content ourselves with merely extracting the following invocation at the com- mencement of the first poem : " let that glorious Angel which since kept That gorgeous Eden where once Adam slept, When tempting Eve was taken from his side, Let him, great God, not only be my guide, But with his fiery faulchion still be nigh To keep affliction far from me, that I With a free soul thy wondrous works may show, When like that Deluge shall thy numbers flow, Telling the state wherein this Earth then stood The giant race, the universal flood." Drayton was born a poet ; — for we are informed by his biographers, that, in his youth, he discovered a propensity to read poetry, and was anxious to know ' what kind of creatures poets were ;' and, even on his coming to College, it is said he importuned his tutor, if possible, ' to make him a poet.' Sir John Davies' Poems are distinguished by great intellect and beauty. Campbell facetiously observes, that ' Sir John Davies wrote, at twentyfive years of age, a Poem on ' The Immortality of the Soul;' and at fiftytwo, when he was a Judge and a Statesman, another on ' The Art of Dancing.' Contemporary with this celebrated individual, was the accomplished Sir Henry Wotton, likewise a statesman, but who, towards the close of his life, took Deacon's Orders, and was nominated Provost of Eton. His mind appears, from many of his writings, to have been deeply imbued with religious feelings, as the pious strain of the fol- lowing poetic effusion will evince : — VOL. VII. — no. xxxm. 18 138 English Sacred Poetry. [[January, A MEDITATION. " O, thou great Power! in whom we Was worlds of seas to quench thine move, ire, By whom we live, to whom we die, O, precious ransom, which once paid, Ik hold me through thy teats of love, That consummatum est was said. Whilst on this Couch of Tears I lie; And cleanse my sordid soul within And said by him that said no more, By thy Christ's hlood, the hath of sin. But scaled it with his sacred breath, Thou then that has dispurged our score, No hallowed oils, no gums I need, And dying, wert the death of death; No ncw-bom drams of purging fire; Be now, whilst on thy name we call, One rosy drop from David's seed Our life, our strength, our joy, our all." Dr Joseph Hall, Bishop of Exeter and Norwich, better known to the world by his Satires, than by his Sacred Poetry, wrote one or two anthems for his Cathedral of Exeter, — the following possesses great imaginative scope, and also much power of versification. " Lord, what am I? a worm, dust, vapour, nothing, What is my life? a dream, a daily dying. What is my flesh? my soul's uneasy clothing. What is my time? a minute ever flying. My time, my flesh, my life, and I, What are we, Lord, but vanity? Where am I, Lord? downe in a vale of Death. What is my trade? sin, my dear God offending. My sport sin too — my stay, a puffe of breath; What end of sin? Hell's horrour never ending. My way, my trade, sport, stay, and place, Help up to make up my dolefull case. Lord, what art Thou? pure life, power, beauty, bliss. Where dwell'st Thou? up above in perfect light. What is thy time? Eternity it is. What State? attendance of each glorious Sp'rit. Thyself, thy place, thy dayes, thy state, Pass all the thoughts of powers to create. How shall I reach Thee, Lord? oh, soar above, Ambitious soul; but which way should I flie ? Thou, Lord, art way and end; what wings have I? Aspiring thoughts, of faith, of hope, of love, Oh, let these wings that way alone Present me to thy blissful Throne." John Donne, that poet of this distinguished aera, who combined beauty, fancy, and playfulness, penned many short sacred pieces, from which we select the following as peculiarly characteristic of his style, and of the age in which lie flourished: • " I am a little world made cunningly Of Elements and an angelic spright, But black sin hath betrayed to endless night Thy world's both parts, and, oh, both parts must die. You which beyond that Heav'n which was most high Have found new spheres, and of new land can write, Pour new seas in mine eyes, that so I might Drown my world with my weeping earnestly; Or wash it, if it must be drowned no more. But, oh, it must be burnt, alas! the fire 1836.] English Sacred Poetry. 139 Of lust and envy burnt it heretofore, And made it fouler: let their flames retire, And burn me, O Lord, with a fiery zeal Of thee and thy house, which doth in eating heal." He was the leading versifier of that metaphysical school, who con- trived to bury the happiest thoughts beneath an obscurity and laboured quaintness of expression which it is often difficult to penetrate. The admirable and glorious Ben Jonson, amid the varied stores of his literary acquisitions (in which he was inferiour to none, even in this learned age), did not entirely' neglect the cultivation of the Sacred Muse. Three of his pieces are distinguished in his works by the title, Poems of Devotion; they exhibit, however, but few traces of that vigorous genius which so preeminently characterizes his Plays, and of that ease and elegance which many of his Songs and Lyrical Effusions display in as high a degree as any to be found in our language. Pure strength of thought, clothed in simple but powerful language, and adorned with an unambitious rhyme, form the distinguished features of most of the compositions of this learned writer. The brilliant succession of Geniuses, to which this age gave birth, bears ample testimony to the beneficial influence exercised over the hu- man mind by the Reformation. Exalted by a religion, the doctrines of which were made known to the people in their own language, the latent powers of the mind were awakened — it burst through the tram- mels in which errour and superstition had so long bound it, — and, drinking deep of the pure fountain of truth, poured forth its energies, and exhibited some of the noblest examples of manly intellect and culti- vated taste. George Sandys commences the third epoch, so prolific in Puritan Poetry. He is known to the world as the translator of Ovid's Meta- morphoses. His Divine Poems are in one volume, and consist of A Para- phrase upon Job — A Paraphrase upon the Psalmes of David — A Para- phrase upon Ecclesiastes — A Paraphrase upon the Lamentations of Jeremiah, together with several minor Paraphrases — and Christ's Pas- sion, a Tragedie, which is accompanied with nearly as many pages of Annotations as the Tragedy consists of itself. The poetry of Sandys is tinged very strongly with the affectation and outlandish conceits so characteristic of the Puritan Poets of his time, notwithstanding that many of his Paraphrases are highly poetic, and betoken a genius, though not capable of appreciating what was correct according to the rules of taste, yet deserving of eminence among those names to whom we are indebted for Sacred Poesy. PSALM CVIII. " My thoughts the Lord their object O heareus, who thy aide implore, make And with thy owne right hand defend; Before the ruddy morning spring, To thy beloved succour send. My glory of his praise shall sing : God, by his sanctitie, thus swore Awake, my lute! my harp, awake! I, Succoth's valley will divide, While I to all the world rehearse In Sichem's spoils be magnified. His praises in a living verse. Manasseh, Gilead, both are mine; Thy mercy (0, how great!) extends Ephraim, my strength, in battaile Above the starry firmament, bold: Still unto tender pity bent; Thou, Judah,shalt my scepter hold, Thy truth the soaring cloud transcends; I will triumph o're Palestine, Thy head, above the heavens erect, Base servitude shall Moab waste; Thy glory on the earth reflect. O're Edom I my shooe will cast, 140 English Sacred Poetry. [January, Who will our forward troops direct To Kabbah, strongly fortifi'd; Or into sandy Edom guide? Lord! wilt not thou, that didst reject, \t r would Si before our armies goe, Now lead our host against the foe? When death and horrour most affright, Of precisely the same school was Izaac Walton, he was so popular in 1 sand copies of his Poems were sold piety than the good taste of the age. following specimen: Doe thou our troubled souls sustaine; For, O, the helpe of man is vaine; Lead, and we valiantly shall fight. Thy feet our foes shall trample downe, Thy hands our browes with conquest crowne." George Herbert. According to lis time, that no less than ten thou- a fact which speaks more for the From his Temple, we select the discipline "Throw away thy rod, Throw away thy wrath. my God, Take the gentle path. Fr r my heart's desire With thine is bent; 1 aspire To a full consent. Not a word or look I affect to own, But by bock, And thy bock alone. Though I fail, I weep, Though 1 halt in pace, Yet I creep To the throne of grace. Then let wrath remove ; Love will do the deed, For with love Strong hearts will bleed. Love is swift of foot, Love's a man of war, And can shoot, And can hit from far! Who can 'scape his bow? That which wrought on thee, Brought thee low, Needs must work on me. Throw away thy rod, Though man frailties hath ; Thou art God, Throw away thy wrath." The Earl of Stirling, whose songs and madrigals have innume- rable beauties scattered throughout them, wrote a long, heavy, religious poem, entitled Doomesday, in which there is but little to admire, and scarcely any portion of it worth extracting. Drummond of Hawthornden, one of the most beautiful poets that Scotland ever produced, whose exquisite feeling and tasteful imagery will cause his works to be read with delight, composed no inconsiderable portion of a magnificent poem, entitled The Shadow of the Judgment, together with many Hymns and Minor Poems on Sacred Subjects, fraught with sweetness and true piety. The following is one among those alluded to: — HYMN FOR WEDNESDAY. " O holy God of heavenly frame, Who mak'st the pole's wide center bright, And paint'st the same with shining flame, Adorning it with beauteous light; Who framing on the fourth of days, The fiery Chariot of the Sun, Appoinl'st the Moon her changing rays, And orbs in which the planets run. That thou might'st by a certain bound 'Twixt night and day division make ; And that some sure sign might be found To show where months beginning take. Men's hearts with lightsome splendour bless, Wipe from their minds polluting spots; Dissolve the bond of guiltiness, Throw down the heaps of sinful blots." 1836.] English Sacred Poetry. 141 Giles and Phixeas Fletcher were two extraordinary brothers, to whose poetry there is little doubt that Milton was indebted for some of his finest passages. Headly, that amiable man and excellent commen- tator, who lias bestowed more attention than any modern critic on the works of The Fletchers, pronounces The Christ's Victory (written by Giles) to be a ' rich and picturesque poem.' In this opinion we conceive all who have read it will agree. It is divided thus: Christ's victory in Heaven — Christ's Triumph on Earth — Christ's Triumph over Death — Christ's Triumph after Death. To give the reader a just idea of the poem would require a much larger space than we can afford; we, therefore, refer him to the volume, and pass on to Phixeas, who is known to all by his magnificent and highly curious poem, The Purple Island ; this, which is anatomy and poesy united, is but a small por- tion of his labours in the field of poetry. Sir Johx Beaumont, brother of Francis, the dramatic colleague of Fletcher, is worthy of notice as having written some Sacred Poems, which are deserving of being better known : at the conclusion of An Ode of the Blessed Trinitie, after mentioning ' the Three in One,' he thus beautifully concludes : " Stay, stay, Parnassian girle, But now thou may'st perceiue Hear thy descriptions faint, The weaknesse of thy wings, Thou humane shapes can'st paint, And that thy noblest strings And can'st compare to pearle To muddy objects cleaue; White teeth, and speak of lips which Then praise with humble silence hea- rubies taint, venly things, Resembling beauteous eies to orbs that And what is more than this, to still swiftly whirl. Devotion leaue." That ' voluminous Saint,' as Campbell calls Fraxcis Qttarles, was one of the most popular writers of this period. His Emblems contain the best specimens of his Sacred Poetry, from which, as they cannot be clearly understood without the illustrative plates, and are, moreover, in the possession of many readers of religious verse, we conceive it would be needless to make any selections. Equally voluminous was his successor, the celebrated Richard Bax- ter, who formed himself confessedly on the model of Herbert and Sandys ; he retains much of his popularity, even to the present day. Drs Barrow and Johnson were great admirers of his writings : his Poems, although disfigured with quaintness, bear marks of that strong mind and fervent piety so visible throughout the pages of his other pro- ductions. THE EXIT. " My Soul, go boldly forth, Mortal men's story; Forsake this sinful earth; Lookup by Faith, and see "What hath it been to thee Sure joyful glory. But pain and sorrow, * * * # And think'st thou it will be Look up tow'rds Heaven, and see Better tomorrow ? How vast those regions be, Where blessed spirits dwell, Love not this darksome womb How pure and lio-htful: Nor yet a gilded tomb, But earth is near to Hell; Though on it written be How dark and frightful!" This fine poem, which consists of thirtyone stanzas, concludes thus beautifully: — 142 English Sacred Poetry. [January, " Lord Jesus, take my spirit, For thou hast sought it; I trust thy Love and Merit; This soul in safety keep, Take home this wand'ring sheep, For thou hast bought it." Habingtox, the celebrated author of The Castara, a volume of poems filled with imagination, tenderness, and elegance, has devoted the last portion of it to moral and religious contemplation: some of these effu- sions possess the simplicity and fervour of true piety in an eminent de- gree, and must have been the offspring of a mind highly cultivated and religious : the three last verses of the last Poem in his works we pre- sent the reader, whose admiration, we think, will equal ours. " My God! if 'tis thy great decree To think this breathlesse body must That this must the last moment be Become a loathsome heape of dust, Wherein I breathe this ayre, And nere again appeare ] My heart obeyes, joyed to retreate From the false favours of the great For in the fire when ore is tryed, And treachery of the faire. And by that torment purified, Do we deplore the losseT When Thou shalt please this soul t' And when thou shalt my soule refine, enthrowne That it thereby may purer shine, Above impure corruption, Shall I grieve for the drosse?" What should I grieve or feare, The sweetest Songwriter of his age was Herrick, to whom the mo- derns are indebted as well for style as for ideas, both of which they have remorselessly pillaged from him ; he wrote but little Sacred Poesy, which we regret, although it is by no means equal to his lighter productious. his saviour's words going to the cross. " Have, have ye no regard, all ye The myrrh, the gall, the vinegar; Who pass this way, to pity me, Who am a man of misery? For Christ, your loving Saviour, hath Drunk of the wine of God's fierce A man both bruised, and broke, and wrath; one Only there's left a little froth, Who suffers not here for my own But for my friends' transgression! Less for to taste than for to show What bitter cups had been your due, Ah, Sion's daughters! do not fear Had he not drunk them up for you." The cross, the cords, the nail, the spear, Crashaw united, with wonderful felicity, strength of thought and beauty of imagination. Pope having purloined some of his best images, declared that poor Crashaw was unworthy of notice, hoping, no doubt, to prevent the detection of his little depredations on premises deserted and abandoned by his own contrivance. He wrote Steps to the Tem- ple, being, for the most part, Epigrams on several passages in the New Testament : he translated Marino's Sospetto d'Herode, and composed a variety of Hymns and other sacred poetry. Many of his pieces, al- though tinged with affectation, are still to be greatly admired, and de- serve to be rescued from the oblivion into which they have unjustly fallen. Of his Paraphrases, we deem that of the 137th Psalm to abound in pathos and poetic beauty. " On the proud banks of great Euphrates' flood, There we sat, and there we wept; Our harps that now no music understood, Nodding, on the willows slept; 1836.] English Sacred Poetry. 143 While unhappy captiv'd we, Lovely Sion, thought on thee! They, they that snatched us from our country's breast, Would have a song carved to their ears In Hebrew numbers, then; O cruel jest! When harps and hearts were drowned in tears. Come, they cried, come sing and play One of Sion's songs to day. Sing! Play! to whom, ah! shall we sing or play, If not, Jerusalem, to thee? Ah, thee, Jerusalem! All! sooner may This hand forget the mastery Of music's dainty touch, than I The music of thy memory! Which, when I lose, oh! may at once my tongue Lose this same busy speaking art ; Unpercht her vocal arteries unstrung, No more acquainted with my heart. On my dry palate's roof to rest, A withered leaf, and idle guest! No, no; thy good, Sion, alone must crown The head of all my hope-nurst joys; But, Edom, cruel thou! thou cry'dst down, down: Sink, Sion, down, and never rise: Her falling thou didst urge and thrust, And haste to dash her into dust. Dost laugh? proud Babel's daughter! do, laugh on, Till thy ruin teach thee tears, E'en such as these, laugh, till a venging throng Of woes too late do rouse thy fears, Laugh till thy children's bleeding bones Weep precious tears upon the stones !" This aera, so fertile in Sacred Poetry, closes with ' The Master Genius' — the sublime, we had almost said the divine — Milton; al- though such was the degenerate taste of the times in which he lived, that the crude and unequal compositions of several of his contempora- ries completely eclipsed the fame that was justly due to his transcend- ent merits. Posterity, however, has done justice to the grandeur of his conceptions, and the sustained majesty of his language, which ap- proaches, as nearly as we can conceive anything human, to the fer- vency of inspiration. To the poetry of the age, through which we have conducted our read- ers, it would be difficult to assign any general character. We meet, throughout, the most brilliant ideas clothed in affectation, quaintness, and obscurity; a few, however, rose superiour to the vices of the age, and in return were doomed to remain unnoticed by their contemporaries, and to receive instead, the applause and homage of posterity. The times were favourable to the production of genius, but the un- settled state of public affairs called it off to scenes of tumult, or the field of controversy, where these ' warring spirits' were so occupied with reply and rejoinder, that they were thus prevented from paying their court with becoming assiduity to the milder beauties of the Sacred Muse. 144 English Sacred Poetry. [January, We come now to the fourth a?ra, in which Waller, who will ever be admired for the sweetness of his numbers, in his declining years com- posed a few Sacred Poems ; he then looked upon the time past with the sentiments which his great predecessor Petrarch bequeathed to posterity upon his review of the amatory poetry which has given him immor- tality. Six short cantos of a poem entitled ' Of Divine Love,' two also ' Of the Fear of God,' and two ' Of Divine Poesy,' comprise nearly the whole of Waller's attempts in this department. As might be guessed, they are greatly inferiour to his amatory effusions. Of the great Dryden, whose works are in every hand, we have to regret that we can find but one sacred effusion proceeding from his pen, with which, without further preface, we present the reader, ob- serving, at the same time, that it possesses that majesty and harmony, so distinguishable in his poetry. V E N I C It E A TOR SPIKITUS. " Creator Spirit! by whose aid Refine and purge our earthly parts; The world's foundations first were laid, But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts! Come visit every pious mind; Our frailties help, our vice controul, Come pour the joys on human kind; Submit the senses to the soul; From sin and sorrow set us free, And when rebellious they are grown, And make thy temples worthy thee. Then lay thy hand, and hold 'em down. O source of uncreated Light, Chase from our minds the infernal The Father's promised Paraclete ! foe, Thrice Holy Fount, thrice Holy Fire, And peace, the fruit of love, bestow; Our hearts with heavenly love inspire; And, lest our feet should step astray, Come, and thy sacred unction bring Protect, and guide us in the way. To sanctify us, while we sing. Make us eternal truths receive, Plenteous of grace, descend from And practise all that we believe: high, (Jive us thyself, that we may see Rich in thy sevenfold energy! The Father, and the Son, by thee. Thou strength of his Almighty hand, Immortal honour, endless fame, Whose power does heaven and earth Attend th' Almighty Father's name: command. The Saviour Son be glorified, Proceeding Spirit, our defence, Who for lost man's redemption died: Who dost the gift of tongues dispense, And equal adoration be, And crown'st thy gift with eloquence! Eternal Paraclete ! to thee." Wextworth Dillon, Earl of Roscommon, was decidedly a man of great poetic genius. It is not saying too much to aflirm, that Lord Roscommon's Paraphrase of the One Hundred and Forty-eighth Psalm is the finest that ever was written, but the reader shall judge for him- self. " azure vaults ! O crystal sky ! The world's transparent canopy, Break your long silence, and let mortals know With what contempt ye look on things below. Winged squadrons of the God of war, Who conquer wheresoe'er you are, Let echoing anthems make his praises known, On earth his footstool, as in heav'n his throne. Great eye of all, whose glorious ray Rules the bright empire of the day, O praise his name, without whose purer light Thou hadst been hid in an abyss of night. Yi moon and planets, who dispense By God's command your influence, 1836.] English Sacred Poetry. 145 Resign to him, as your Creator, due, That veneration which men pay to you. Fairest as well as first of things, From whom all joy, all beauty springs, praise th' Almighty Ruler of the globe, Who useth thee for his imperial robe. Praise him, ye loud harmonious spheres, Whose sacred stamp all nature bears, Who did all forms from the wide chaos draw, And whose command is th' universal law. Ye wat'ry mountains of the sky, And you so far above our eye, Vast ever-moving orbs, exalt his name, Who gave its being to your glorious frame. Ye dragons, whose contagious breath Peoples the dark retreats of death, Change your fierce hissing into joyful songs, And praise your Maker with your forked tongues. Praise him, ye monsters of the deep, That in the sea's vast bosom sleep, At whose command the foaming billows roar, Yet know their limits, tremble and adore. Ye mists and vapours, hail and snow, And you who through the concave blow, Swift executors of his holy word, Whirlwinds and tempests, praise th' Almighty Lord. Mountains, who to your Maker's view Seem less than mole-hills do to you, Remember how, when first Jehovah spoke, All heav'n was fire, and Sinai hid in smoke. Praise him, sweet offspring of the ground With heav'nly nectar yearly crowned ; And ye tall cedars, celebrate his praise, That in his temple sacred altars raise. Idle musicians of the spring, Whose only care 's to love and sing, Fly through the world, and let your trembling throat Praise your Creator with the sweetest note. Praise him each savage furious beast, That on his stores do daily feast, And you tame beasts of the laborious plow, Your weary knees to your Creator bow. Majestic monarchs, mortal gods, Whose pow'rhath here no periods, May all attempts against your crown be vain, But still remember by whose pow'ryou reign. Let the wide world his praises sing, Where Tagus and Euphrates spring, And from the Danube's frosty banks to those Where from an unknown head great Nilus flows. VOL. VII. NO. XXXIII. 19 146 English Sacred Poetry. [January, You that dispose of all our lives, Praise him from whom your pow'r derives ; Be true and just like him, and fear his word, As much as malefactors do your sword. Praise him, old monuments of time! () praise him in your youthful prime. Praise him, fair idols of our greedy sense, Exalt his name, sweet age of innocence. Jehovah's name shall only last, When heaven and earth, and all is past; Nothing, great God, is to be found in thee But inconceivable eternity. Exalt, O Jacob's sacred race, The God of gods, the God of grace, Who will above the stars your empire raise, And with his glory recompense your praise." Having given the whole of the paraphrase, we have left ourselves no room to extract any portion of a short poem On the Day of Judgment, which is equally to be admired with the foregoing. The death of the poet we have so highly eulogized, deserves to be mentioned here : at the moment in which he expired, it is recorded that he uttered, with an energy of voice which expressed the most fervent devotion, two lines of his own Version of Dies lrse: " My God, my Father and my Friend, Do not forsake me in my end !" Pomfret, who possessed a pleasing and equal style of verse, wrote a few Pindaric Essays on sacred subjects, which contain many elevated ideas and glowing sentiments: in one of the Essays alluded to, entitled A Prospect of Death, is the following verse, which will give the reader a fair idea of the whole : " When to the margin of the grave we come, And scarce have one black painful hour to live, No hopes, no prospect of a kind reprieve, To stop our speedy passage to the tomb ; How moving and how mournful is the sight, How wonderous pitiful, how wonderous sad ! Where then is refuge, where comfort to be had, In the dark minutes of the dreadful night, To cheer our drooping souls for their amazing flight ? Feeble and languishing in bed we lie, Despairing to recover, void of rest, Wishing for death, and yet afraid to die ! Terrors and doubts distract our breast, With mighty agonies and mighty pains opprest." Soon after this period, Sir Richard Blackmore flourished ; he is known to the poetic world, as being the eternal butt of all wits of his day, on account of the heaviness of his productions, among which his poem, The Creation, stands preeminent. Of a very opposite character to the preceding, was his contemporary, Matthew Prior : light, gay, and vivacious, it was not to be expected that he should pay his court with much assiduity to the sacred Muse. He has, however, left us a Paraphrase on the thirteenth chapter of the 1836.] English Sacred Poetry. 147 first Epistle to the Corinthians, which is eminently beautiful; it com- mences thus : — CHARITY. Did sweeter sounds adorn my flowing tongue Than ever man pronounced or angels sung, Had I all knowledge, human and divine, That thought can reach, or science can define, And had 1 power to give that knowledge birth In all the speeches of the babbling earth ; Did Shadrach's zeal my glowing breast inspire To weary tortures, and rejoice in fire, Or had I faith like that which Israel saw When Moses gave them Miracles and Law; Yet gracious Charity ! indulgent guest, Were not thy power exerted in my breast, Those speeches would send up unheeded prayer, That scorn of life would be but wild despair: A cymbal's sound were better than my voice, My faith were form, my eloquence were noise. " # # # # Parnell, the wellknown author of The Hermit, wrote several beau- tiful Paraphrases, and other Sacred Poems : they are, for the most part, too long to insert entire. Some of Yalden's Poems possess merit. His Hymn to the Morn- ing, and Paraphrase of the thirteenth chapter of Isaiah are the only ones which come within the scope of the present Sketch. We regret that we can give no more than one verse of the former ; we therefore present our readers with the last, which we conceive to be the most effective : " ' Let there be light !' the great Creator said, His word the active child obeyed ; Night did her teeming womb disclose, And then the blushing Morn, its brightest offspring, rose. Awhile th' Almighty wondering viewed, And then himself pronounced it good ; ' With Night,' said he, ' divide th' imperial sway ; ' Thou my first labour art, and thou shalt bless the Day.' " Of that celebrated poet and exemplary Christian, Addison, it is un- necessary to speak in terms of panegyric. With his most celebrated " Paraphrase" we present our readers, without any further comment than merely expressing our regret that our language has not been enrich- ed with a complete series of divine poems from the same sublime pen. PSALM XIX. The spacious firmament on high, While all the stars that round her burn, With all the blue ethereal sky And all the planets in their turn, And spangled heaven, a shining frame, Confirm the tidings as they roll, Their Great Original proclaim : And spread the truth from pole to pole. Th' unwearied Sun from day to day Does his Creator's power display, What though in solemn silence all And publishes to ev'ry land Move round this dark terrestrial ball ? The work of an Almighty hand. What though no real voice nor sound Amid their radiant orbs be found ? Soon as the ev'ning shades prevail, In reason's ear they all rejoice, The Moon takes up the wondrous tale, And utter forth a glorious voice ; And nightly to the listening earth For ever singing, as they shine, Repeats the story of her birth ; ' The hand that made us is divine,' " 148 English Sacred Poetry. [January, Gay, the moral and instructive author of The Fables, deserves men- tion, on account of two of his poems, A Contemplation on Night, and A Thought on Eternity; the former of which concludes with the follow- ing beautiful lines : — " When the pure Soul is from the Body flown, No more shall Night's alternate reign be known ; The Sun no more shall rolling light bestow, LSut from th' Almighty streams of glory flow. Oh! may some nobler thought my soul employ, Than empty, transient, sublunary joy ! The Stars shall drop, the Sun shall lose his flame; But thou, O God, for ever shine the same." Contemporary with these beautiful poets, but as a versifier, superior to them all, was Pope: to descant on his merits is unnecessary. This acra embraces many of the most distinguished names in that bright galaxy of genius which procured for the age the proud title of ' Augustan.' Waller, Dryden, Addison, Pope, and many others, con- tributed to smooth our numbers and language to a degree that has not been excelled by the most elegant of modern versifiers ; although, it must be confessed, that they lost much of the energy and strength which characterize the less laboured, but more forcible productions of their successors. The fifth period of English Sacred Poetry commences with Dr Watts, whose name occupies a high station among the writers of religious poetry, and who was equally celebrated as a Philosopher and a Divine. His works are too numerous and too well known to need either enume- ration or eulogy here. His Psalms and Hymns still deservedly main- tain their popularity; they are equally suitable to youth, manhood, and old age. Abounding in sweetness, simplicity, and pathos, they will, we have no doubt, descend to succeeding generations, who will, as justly as the present age, appreciate these fruits of genuine piety and exalted talent. Elizabeth Rowe possessed considerable talents, which she devoted to the best of all purposes, the promotion of religion and virtue ; the longest of her Poetical Works is The History of Joseph, besides which she wrote several Hymns. Pitt, the celebrated translator of Virgil, wrote many Paraphrases : they possess spirit and piety, but, each being too long for insertion here, we must refer the reader to his Works, should he be desirous of perusing what our limited space compels us to exclude. Thomson, the poet of Nature, whose descriptive poem, The Seasons, contains many passages which mark a mind imbued with pious as well as poetic feeling, wrote A Hymn to the Deity, which is generally sub- joined to his larger work. Contemporary with Thomson was the most celebrated of modern Sacred Poets, Dr Young. His Night Thoughts are too well known to our readers to need either extract or comment. Among his minor reli- gious poems are to be found many beauties. His Paraphrase upon part of The Book of Job teems with the magnificent imagery of the original. His Last Day is also extremely fine, and contains many highwrought passages, the offspring of a mind which, in many of its conceptions, approaches very nearly to the sublime. Harte, the biographer of Gustavus Adolphus, wrote many Divine Poems ; also a Collection of Religious Poems, entitled The Amaranth : 1836.] English Sacred Poetry. 149 they are for the most part long and very unequal, and but few parts are worth extracting for the reader's perusal. Byrom, the author of that celebrated Pastoral, "My Time, oh ye Muses, was happily spent," wrote many devotional pieces, the whole of which possess considerable ability ; some indeed would not suffer by compa- rison with Watts. We insert for our readers' gratification one of his best poems, entitled A PENITENTIAL SOLILOQUY. What though no objects strike upon the sight! Thy sacred presence is an inward light; What though no sounds shall penetrate the ear! To list'ning thought the voice of truth is clear; Sincere devotion needs no outward shrine, The centre of an humble soul is thine. There may I worship, and there may'st thou place Thy seat of mercy and thy throne of grace ; Yea fix, if Christ my advocate appear,, The dread tribunal of thy justice there; Let each vain thought, let each impure desire, Meet in thy wrath with a consuming fire. Whilst the kind rigours of a righteous doom All deadly filth of selfish pride comsume, Thou, Lord, canst raise, though punishing for sin, The joys of peaceful penitence within; Thy justice and thy mercy both are sweet, That make our sufferings and salvation meet. Befall me then whatever God shall please, His wounds are healing and his griefs give ease ; He, like a true physician of the soul, Applies the med'cine that may make it whole ; I '11 do, I '11 suffer whatsoever he wills, I see his aim through all these transient ills. 'T is to infuse a salutary grief, To fit the mind for absolute relief; That, purged from ev'ry false and finite love, Dead to the world, alive to things above, The soul may rise as in its first-formed youth, And worship God in spirit and in truth. The unfortunate and imprudent Boyse's Poem of The Deity was highly praised by some of his contemporaries, especially by Fielding. " To write piously on such a theme," says Southey, with his customary dogmatism and highchurch bigotry, " may expiate the presumption of the attempt, but cannot palliate the folly. The perfect absurdity of this criticism must be obvious to all, and the extract, which we shall proceed to make, will convince our readers that there is no foundation for the as- sertion of the same critic, that "Boyse's Poems excite little pleasure, and impart no instruction." WISDOM OF THE DEITY. Thou, who, when the' Almighty formed this all, Upheld the scale and weighed each balanced ball; And as his hand completed each design, Numbered the work, and fixed the seal divine ! O Wisdom infinite ! creation's soul, Whose rays diffuse new lustre o'er the whole, 150 English Sacred Poetry. [January, What tongues shall make thy charms celestial known 1 What hand, fair goddess! paint thee but thy own? What though in Nature's universal store Appear the wonders of almighty pow'r; Pow'r, unattended, terrour would inspire, Awed must we gaze, and comfortless admire. But when fair Wisdom joins in the design, The beauty of the whole result 's divine ! Hence life acknowledges its glorious cause, And matter owns its great Disposer's laws ; Hence in a thousand diff 'rent models wrought, Now fixed to quiet, now allied to thought; Hence flow the forms and properties of things, Hence rises harmony, and order springs ; Else, had the mass a shapeless chaos lay, Nor ever felt the dawn of Wisdom's day ! See how, associate, round their central Sun Their faithful rings the circling planets run ; Still equidistant, never yet too near, Exactly tracing their appointed sphere. Mark how the Moon our flying orb pursues, While from the- Sun her monthly light renews, Breathes her wide influence on the world below, And bids the tides alternate ebb and flow. View how in course the constant seasons rise, Deform the earth, or beautify the skies : First, Spring advancing, with her flow'ry train; Next, Summer's hand, that spreads the sylvan scene ; Then, Autumn, with her yellow harvests crowned, And trembling Winter close the annual round. The vegetable tribes observant trace, From the tall cedar to the creeping grass ; The chain of animated beings scale, From the small reptile to th' enormous whale ; From the strong eagle stooping through the skies, To the low insect that escapes thy eyes! And see, if see thou canst, in ev'ry frame, Eternal Wisdom shine confessed the same : As proper organs to the least assigned, As proper means to propagate the kind, As just the structure, and as wise the plan, As in this lord of all — debating man ! To the pen of Samuel Wesley, brother to the celebrated John Wes- ley, we are indebted for one of the sweetest pieces of Sacred Lyrical Poetry our language can boast. " The morning flowers display their But worn by slowly rolling years, sweets, Or broke by sickness in a day, And gay their silken leaves unfold, The fading glory disappears, As careless of the noontide heats, The shortlived beauties die away. And fearless of the evening cold. a.t- lv_^ • j, iii Yet these, new-rising from the tomb, Nipt by the wind's untimely blast, ^ j w h ^ fer shaU ^ Parched by the sun's directer ray, (Jf ^^^ . ^ nfe m 1)]oom) The momentary glories waste, g £ fn)m diseascs and d lin The shortlived beauties die away. So blooms the human face divine, Let sickness blast, let death devour, When youth its pride of beauty So Heaven but recompense our pains, shows ; Perish the grass, and fade the flower ; Fairer than Spring the colours shine, If firm the word of God remains." And sweeter than the newblown rose. 1836.] English Sacred Poetry. 151 Fawkes, the celebrated translator, who was a clergyman, penned a few religious pieces, which are so excellent, that we regret he did not pay his devotions oftener to the Sacred Muse. THE PICTURE OF OLD AGE. "My Son, attentive hear the voice of truth, Remember thy Creator in thy youth, Ere days of pale adversity appear, And age and sorrow fill the gloomy year ; When, wearied with vexation, thou shalt say, ' No rest by night I know, no joy by day.' Ere the bright soul's enlightened power was frail, Ere reason, memory, and fancy fail, But care succeeds to care, and pain to pain, As clouds urge clouds returning after rain. Ere yet the arms unnerved and feeble grow, The weak legs tremble, and the loose knees bow ; Ere yet the grinding of the teeth is o'er, And the dim eyes behold the Sun no more ; Ere yet the pallid lips forget to speak, The gums are toothless, and the voice is weak. Restless he rises when the lark he hears, Yet sweetest music fails to charm his ears ; A stone or hillock turns his giddy brain, Appalled with fear he totters o'er the plain, And, as the almond-tree white flowers displays, His head grows hoary with the length of days ; As leanness in the grasshopper prevails, So shrink his body and his stomach fails. Doomed to the grave, his last long home, to go, The mourners march along with solemn woe : Ere yet life's silver cord be snapt in twain, Ere broke the golden bowl that holds the brain; Ere broke the pitcher at the fountful heart, Or life's wheel shivered, and the soul depart ; Then shall the dust to native Earth be given, The Soul shall soar sublime, and wing its way to Heaven." Christopher Smart, who four times gained the Seatonian Prize, at one period of his life had the misfortune to be the inmate of a mad- house, where he composed his Song to David, and, being debarred pen and ink, wrote it with a coal, or anything that came in his way, on the wainscot : after his recovery, he wrote The Parables of our Saviour, in familiar Verse. It is said that Smart was so impressed with the impor- tance of the subjects of his religious poems, that he frequently wrote them on his knees. He possesses great command of imagery, and at times rises to sublimity, as the following passage, descriptive of The Last Day, will evince : — " A Day shall come, when all this Earth shall perish, Nor leave behind ev'n Chaos ; it shall come When all the armies of the elements Shall war against themselves ; and mutual rage, To make Perdition triumph : it shall come When the capacious atmosphere above Shall in sulphureous thunders groan and die, And vanish into void ; the earth beneath Shall sever to the centre, and devour Th' enormous blaze of the destructive flames. Ye rocks, that mock the raving of the floods, And proudly frown upon th' impatient deep, 152 English Sacred Poetry. [January, Where is your grandeur now? Ye foaming waves, That all along th' immense Atlantic roar, In vain ye swell ; will a few drops suffice To quench the inextinguishable fire? Ye mountains, on whose cloudcrowned tops the cedars Are lessened into shrubs, magnific piles, That prop the painted chambers of the heavens, And fix the earth continual ; Athos, where ? Where, TenerifTe, thy stateliness today? What, jEtna, are thy flames to these? — No more Than the poor glowworm to the golden Sun. Nor shall the verdant vallies then remain Safe in their meek submission ; they the debt Of nature and of justice too must pay. Yet I must weep for you, ye rival fair, Arno and Andalusia ; but for thee More largely and with filial tears must weep, Albion, O my country! Thou must join, In vain dissevered from the rest, must join The terrours of th' inevitable ruin. Nor thou, illustrious monarch of the day ; Nor thou, fair queen of night ; nor you, ye stars, Though million leagues and million still remote, Shall yet survive that day ; ye must submit, Sharers, not bright spectators of the scene. But though the earth shall to the centre perish, Nor leave behind ev'n Chaos ; though the air With all the elements must pass away, Vain as an ideot's dream ; though the huge rocks, That brandish the tall cedars on their tops, With humbler vales must to perdition yield ; Though the gilt Sun, and silver-tressed Moon With all her bright retinue must be lost ; Yet Thou, Great Father of the World, sarviv'st Eternal, as thou wert : Yet still survives The soul of man immortal, perfect now, And candidate for unexpiring joys." James Merrick, a divine and poet, wrote much Sacred Poetry ; among which may be found many clever Paraphrases of the Psalms, and seve- ral other portions of the Scripture : from these we select THE NUNC DIMITTIS, " 'Tis enough — the hour is come ; Now within the silent tomb Let this mortal frame decay, Mingled with its kindred clay; Since thy mercies, oft of old By thy chosen seers foretold, Faithful now and stedfast prove, God of Truth and God of Love! Since at length my aged eye Sees the Dayspring from on high, Sun of Righteousness, to thee, Lo! the nations bow the knee ; And the realms of distant kings Own the healing of thy wings. Those whom Death had overspread With his dark and dreary shade, Lift their eyes, and from afar Hail the light of Jacob's star; Waiting till the promised ray Turn their darkness into day. See the beams, intensely shed, Shine o'er Sion's favoured head ! Never may they hence remove, God of Truth and God of Love! Nathaniel Cotton, the author of The Fables and many moral poems, which will be admired while simplicity of thought and harmony of versification shall excite praise, wrote very pleasing religious poetry. Scott of Amwell, as he is generally called, was a Quaker by birth. Among his miscellaneous compositions are to be found several Sacred 1836.] English Sacred Poetry. 153 Poems, two of which obtained Seatonian Prizes : there being nothing remarkable either in their style or composition. We present no extract. In this age, Sacred Poetry assumed a new form, and ceased to be dis- figured by the poor conceits and metaphysical doctrines which had pre- viously been its almost universal accompaniments ; and, instead of being addressed to the head alone, appealed more forcibly to the heart, which it roused to devotion by means at once the most simple and the most powerful. The character of the times was vastly improved; the dissolute man- ners and unsettled principles of the former age had been gradually cor- rected by the writings of the eminent Moralists and Divines by whom this was adorned, and a brighter aera — the sixth, according to our divi- sion — was now approaching. Contemporary and intimate with Dr Johnson, whose religion, how- ever dogmatic, was neither very precise, forbearing or partial, was that learned and gifted lady, Elizabeth Carter. Much of her poetry is of a moral and didactic nature ; but the following partakes, in an eminent degree, the religious feelings which uniformly characterized her, through a long and wellspent life. THOUGHTS AT MIDNIGHT. " While Night in solemn shade invests the Pole, And calm reflection soothes the pensive soul ; While Reason undisturbed asserts her sway, And life's deceitful colours fade away ; To Thee ! all-conscious Presence ! I devote This peaceful interval of sober thought. Here all my better faculties confine, And be this hour of sacred silence Thine. If, by the day's illusive scenes misled, My erring soul from Virtue's path has strayed; If by example snared, by passion warmed, Some false delight my giddy sense has charmed, My calmer thoughts the wretched choice reprove, And my best hopes are centered in Thy love. Deprived of this, can life one joy afford ? Its utmost boast, a vain unmeaning word. But, ah ! how oft my lawless passions rove, And break those awful precepts I approve ! Pursue the fatal impulse I abhor ! And violate the virtue I adore ! Oft, when thy gracious Spirit's guardian care Warned my fond soul to shun the tempting snare, My stubborn will his gentle aid represt, And checked the rising goodness in my breast; Mad with vain hopes, or urged by false desires, Stilled his soft voice, and quenched bis sacred fires. With grief opprest, and prostrate in the dust, Should'st thou condemn, I own the sentence just. But, oh, thy softer titles let me claim, And plead my cause by Mercy's gentle name. Mercy, that wipes the penitential tear, And dissipates the horrors of despair ; Prom rigorous Justice steals the vengeful hour, Softens the dreadful attribute of power; Disarms the wrath of an offended God, And seals my pardon in a Saviour's blood. All-powerful Grace, exert thy gentle sway, And teach my rebel passions to obey, VOL VII. NO. XXXIII. 20 154 English Sacred Poetry. [January, Lest lurking Folly with insidious art Regain my volatile, inconstant heart. Shall ev'ry high resolve devotion frames Be only lifeless sounds and specious names? Or rather while thy hopes and fears controul In this still hour each motion of my soul, Secure its safety by a sudden doom, And be the soft retreat of sleep my tomb. Calm let me slumber in that dark repose, Till the last morn its orient beam disclose: Then, when the great Archangel's potent sound Shall echo through Creation's ample round, Waked from the sleep of Death, with joy survey The op'ning splendours of eternal day." That child of genius and misfortune, Thomas Chatterton, who, per- haps, has a better claim to the title of Prodigy than any on whom it has been lavished, claims our attention as the author of a beautiful Hymn, written at the age of eleven. When we review the early poetical pro- ductions of the greatest poets of any age, we are struck with astonish- ment to observe how vastly superiour is that which we now present the reader to all the precocious emanations with which it can be put in com- petition. HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS DAY. " Almighty Framer of the skies, O let our pure devotion rise Like incense in thy sight; Wrapt in impenetrable shade, The texture of our souls were made, Till thy command gave light. The Sun of Glory gleamed the ray, Refined the darkness into day, And bid the vapours fly ; Impelled by his eternal love, He left his palaces above To cheer our gloomy sky. How shall we celebrate the day, When God appeared in mortal clay, The mark of worldly scorn ; When th' Archangel's heavenly lays Attempted the Redeemer's praise, And hailed Salvation's morn 1 Almighty form the Godhead wore, The pains of poverty he bore, To gaudy pomp unknown : Though in a human walk he trod, Still was the man Almighty God, In glory all his own ! Despised, oppressed, the Godhead bears The torments of this vale of tears, Nor bad his vengeance rise ; He saw the creatures he had made Revile his power, his peace invade, He saw with Mercy's eyes. How shall we celebrate his name, Who groaned beneath a life of shame, In all afflictions tried 1 The soul is raptured to conceive A truth which being must believe, — The God Eternal died ! My soul, exert thy powers, adore; Upon devotion's plumage soar, To celebrate the day, The God from whom creation sprung Shall animate my grateful tongue, From him I'll catch the lay. The Scotch poet Logan, besides many other religious poems, com- posed nine Hymns, all of which partake the feeling and good taste so distinguishable throughout his poetic effusions. Blacklock, his fellow countryman, who lost his sight before he was six months old, and has consequently been extolled as a prodigy on ac- count of his descriptive powers, was a writer also of Sacred Poetry, much of which is deserving of admiration, especially if we take into consideration the melancholy deprivation under which he suffered. William Hayward Roberts wrote A Poetical Essay on the Attri- 1836.] English Sacred Poetry. 155 butes and Providence of the Deity, and several other pieces of Sacred Poetry. Many passages of these possess considerable merit, but our limits preclude us from quoting them. Among the productions of that elegant poet and profound scholar William Mason, we find the following, which is remarkable for its sim- plicity and harmony of versification, and must have served as the model of Pierpont. HYMN FOR YORK CATHEDRAL. "Again the day returns of holy rest, Andjoinin penitence, and joinin prayer. Which when he made the world, Jeho- vah blest, So shall the God of Mercy pleased re- When, like his own, he bade his labours ceive cease, That only tribute man has power to And all be piety, and all be peace. give ; So shall he hear, while fervently we While impious men despise Thy sage raise decree, Our choral harmony in hymns of praise. From vain deceit and false philosophy, Let us its wisdom own, its blessings Father of heaven ! in whom our hopes feel, confide, Receive with gratitude, perform with Whose power defends us, and whose zeal. precepts guide, In life our guardian, and in death our Let us devote this consecrated day friend, To learn his will, and all we learn obey ; Glory supreme be thine till Time shall In pure Religion's hallowed duties end S" share, The merits of Blair, the divine, and elegant poet, must, we imagine, be known, and doubtless his poem, The Grave, is prized as it deserves to be. The nature, feeling, and pathos, displayed throughout this poem, entitle him to a high rank among modern sacred poets. We select the admirable passage in which the author dissuades from suicide, as a spe- cimen of the splendid talents and force of reasoning with which it is enriched. " If death were nothing, and nought after death ; If when men died, at once they ceased to be, Returning to the barren womb of nothing, Whence first they sprung, then might the debauchee Untrembling mouth the heavens : — then might the drunkard Reel over his full bowl, and, when 'tis drained, Fill up another to the brim, and laugh At the poor bugbear death : — them might the wretch That 's weary of the world, and tired of life, At once give each inquietude the slip, By stealing out of being, when he pleased, And by what way, whether by hemp or steel ; Death's thousand doors stand open. — Who could force The ill-pleased guest to sit out his full time, Or blame him if he goes 1 — Sure he does well, That helps himself as timely as he can, When able. But if there's an hereafter , (And that there is, conscience, uninfluenced And suffered to speak out, tells every man ;) Then must it be an awful thing to die : More horrid yet to die by one's own hand. Self-murder ! — name it not : our island's shame, That makes her the reproach of neighbouring states. Shall nature, swerving from her earliest dictate, 156 English Sacred Poetry. [January, Self-preservation, fall by her own act? Forbid it, Heaven! — Let not, upon disgust, The shameless hand be foully crimsoned o'er With blood of its own lord Dreadful attempt ! Just reeking from self-slaughter, in a rage, To rush into the presence of our Judge ; As if we challenged him to do his worst, And mattered not his wrath! — Unheard-of tortures Must be reserved for such : these herd together ; The common damned shun their society, And look upon themselves as fiends less foul. Our time is fixed, and all our days are numbered ! How long, how short, we know not : — this we know, Duty requires we calmly wait the summons, Nor dare to stir till Heaven shall give permission : Like sentries that must keep their destined stand, And wait th' appointed hour, till they're relieved. Those only are the brave that keep their ground, And keep it to the last. To run away Is but a coward's trick : to run away From this world's ill, that at the very worst Will soon blow o'er, thinking to mend ourselves, By boldly venturing on a world unknown, And plunging headlong in the dark ; — 't is mad ; No frenzy half so desperate as this." The learned Bishop Lowth, whose Translation of Isaiah, and Trea- tise on the Sacred Poetry of the Hebrews, will ever be read and admired, wrote numerous pieces of Sacred Poetry of a very superiour character. They are chiefly distinguishable by grasp of thought and vigorous ima- gination, nor are they deficient in that smooth and easy flow of num- bers which adds a charm to the finest conceptions, and gives additional grace to the most sublime ideas. david's elegy for sauland Jonathan. "Thy glory, Israel, droops its languid head, On Gilboa's heights thy rising beauty dies : In sordid piles there sleep th' illustrious dead. The mighty victor fall'n and vanquished lies. Yet dumb be Grief — Hushed be her clam'rous voice! Tell not in Gath the tidings of our shame! Lest proud Philistia in our woes rejoice, And rude barbarians blast fair Israel's fame. No more, Gilboa! heaven's reviving dew With rising verdure crown thy fated head ! No victim's blood thine altar dire imbrue ! For there the blood of heaven's elect was shed. The sword of Saul ne'er spent its force in air ; The shaft of Jonathan brought low the brave ; In life united equal fates they share, In death united share one common grave. Swift as the eagle cleaves the aerial way, Through hosts of foes they bent their rapid course ; Strong as the lion darts upon his prey, They crushed the nations with resistless force. 1830.] English Sacred Poetry. 157 Daughters of Judah, mourn the fatal day, In sable grief attend your monarch's urn ; To solemn notes attune the pensive lay, And weep those joys that never shall return : With various wealth he made your tents o'erflow, In princely pride your charms profusely drest ; Bade the rich robe with ardent purple glow, And sparkling gems adorn the tissued vest. On Gilboa's heights the mighty vanquished lies, The son of Saul, the generous and the just; Let streaming sorrows ever fill these eyes, In sacred tears bedew a brother's dust ! Thy firm regard revered thy David's name, And kindest thoughts in kindest acts expressed ; Not brighter glows the pure and gen'rous flame That lives within the tender virgin's breast. But vain the tear, and vain the bursting sigh, Though Sion's echoes with our griefs resound ; The mighty victors fall'n and vanquished lie, And war's refulgent weapons strew the ground."' Bishop Portetjs, the successor of Lowth in the See of London, in addition to his other religious works, composed a Seatonian Prize Poem on Death, which has many beauties. Throughout may be found many noble and glowing sentiments, of which the following is one of the most striking, and, in many respects, applicable to our own demigod and demagogue-led country. " First Envy, eldest born of Hell, imbrued Her hands in blood, and taught the sons of men To make a death which Nature never made, And God abhorred, with violence rude to break The thread of life, ere half its length was run, And rob a wretched brother of his being. With joy Ambition saw, and soon improved The execrable deed. 'T was not enough By subtle fraud to snatch a single life, Puny impiety ! whole kingdoms fell To sate the lust of power ; more horrid still, The foulest stain and scandal of our nature Became its boast. — One murder made a villain, Millions, a hero. — Princes were privileged To kill, and numbers sanctified the crime. Ah ! why will kings forget that they are men ! And men that they are brethren 1 Why delight In human sacrifice T Why burst the ties Of nature, that should knit their souls together In one soft bond of amity and love 1 Yet still they breathe destruction, still go on Inhumanly ingenious to find out New pains for life, new terrours for the grave, Artificers of Death ! Still monarchs dream Of universal empire growing up From universal ruin Blast the design, Great God of Hosts, nor let thy creatures fall Unpitied victims at Ambition's shrine !" Ocilvie Avas distinguished for his learning, genius, and piety, but his 158 English Sacred Poetry. [January, poetry by no means equals the expectations which his numerous and ex- cellent prose works would induce us to entertain. On Cowper, one of the most descriptive of modern poets, and per- haps the most effective of modern satirists, it is needless to comment : the gentler affections of his heart were blighted by a morbid sensibility ; and the greater part of his hours, which might have been rendered highly useful to mankind, were passed in a cheerless state of gloomy appre- hension. Some glimpses of sunshine, however, darted across the me- lancholy clouds which enveloped him, and to these we are indebted for some of the finest poetry that adorn our language. That extraordinary and indefatigable divine, the Rev. John Newton, deservedly occupies a station contiguous to Cowper, with whom he con- tinued for years on terms of the closest intimacy. His prose works (which consist of several volumes) are terse, powerful, and imaginative ; his poetry partakes, in a great degree, the same qualities. Scotia's most imaginative child, Robert Burns, who is the only one of those " poets of nature," as they are called, who may be fairly said to have obtained the highest rank in poesy, seems, in spite of his gene- rally dissipated character, to have been impressed with serious thoughts and religious feelings. These, it is true, were evanescent ; yet, while they lasted, they gave birth to the following effusions, which are fraught with genuine poetry and piety, apparently the most sincere and unaf- fected. A Prayer written, and left in the room in which the Author slept for a Night at the House of a Friend.* " thou dread Power, who reign'st Their hope, their stay, their darling above ! youth, I know thou wilt me hear, In manhood's dawning blush ; When for this scene of peace and love Bless him, thou God of love and truth, I make my prayer sincere. Up to a parent's wish. The hoary sire — the mortal stroke, Long, long, be pleased to spare ; To bless his little filial flock, And show what good men are. She, who her lovely offspring eyes With tender hopes and fears, 0, bless her with a mother's joys, And spare a mother's tears ! The beauteous, seraph, sister-band, With earnest tears I pray, Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand, Guide thou their steps alway. When soon or late they reach that coast, O'er life's rough ocean driv'n, May they rejoice, no wanderer lost, A family in Heav'n !" From " the Land of the North" also came Grahame, well known as the author of The Sabbath, a Poem ; in which may be found many pleasing passages. The following short extract strikes us as one of the most poetic in the volume : " But chiefly Man the day of rest enjoys. Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day : On other days, the man of toil is doomed To eat his joyless bread, lonely; the ground Both seat and board ; screened from the winter's cold, And summer's heat, by neighbouring hedge or tree ; But on this day, embosomed in his home, He shares the frugal meal with those he loves ; With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy *Dr Laurie, then minister of the parish of Loudon. 1836.] English Sacred Poetry. 159 Of giving thanks to God, — not thanks of form, A word and a grimace, but reverently, With covered face and upward earnest eye. Hail, Sabbath ! thee I hail, the poor man's day : The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe The morning air, pure from the city's smoke, While, wand'ring slowly up the river side, He meditates on Him, whose power he marks In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom Around its roots ; and while he thus surveys, With elevated joy, each rural charm, He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope, That Heav'n may be one Sabbath without end." Henry Kirk White is a name that will be imperishable in the re- cords of precocious talent; pious, amiable, and learned, yet struggling against numerous evils which his limited means could not fail to entail on him ; his fate awakens our regret, while the variety and the solidity of his acquirements excite admiration for his genius, and the profound- est respect for his unwearied application and moral virtues. Many of his poems are sacred, and eminently distinguished by fervent piety. He contemplated, and indeed commenced, a long Divine Poem, entitled The Christiad, in the Spenserian stanza ; and from the specimen presented, we regret he did not live to conclude what he so well began. His Hymns (of which there are but few) are perhaps the most highly finished of any of his productions ; the one we now submit to the reader is at once unaffectedly pious and poetic. THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. " When, marshalled on the nightly Deep horror then my vitals froze, plain, Death-struck, I ceased the tide to The glittering host bestud the sky, stem ; One Star alone, of all the train, When suddenly a star arose, Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. It was the Star of Bethlehem. Hark ! hark ! to God the chorus breaks, It was my guide, my light, my all, From every host, from every gem ; It bade my dark forebodings cease ; But one alone the Saviour speaks, And through the storm, and danger's It is the Star of Bethlehem. thrall, It led me to the port of peace. Once on the raging seas I rode, The storm was loud, — the night was Now safely moored ! — my perils o'er, dark, I '11 sing, first in night's diadem, The ocean yawned, — and rudely blowed For ever and for evermore, The wind that tossed my foundering The Star ! — The Star of Bethlehem!" bark. EPIGRAM On ** and *#*, who never depart from a fixed rule of business namely, their own avarice. In return for your dogma, may Death and the Devil, To whom ye are bondslaves, never depart From the fixed rule that whelms ye in the fire-sea of Evil, And unmuzzles the demons to prey on your heart. For what ye forego not, should ne'er be foregone, And Hinnom with curses should welcome her son ! 1 60 [January, THE PRIMA DO'-NNA. A TALE OF ITALY. From the Unpublished Reminiscences of an Amateur. Part I. Where steps of purest marble meet the wave ; Where, through tiie trellises and corridors, Soft music came as from Armida's palace, Breathing enchantment o'er the woods, the waters. Rogers. The Italian poet apostrophizes the spring as the " Gioventu dell' anno." In Italy, however, the fact is otherwise; and from the gene- rally mild temperature of the winters, the inhabitants are hardly con- scious of the transition from winter to spring. The true springtime of the year in Italy is after the first rains in autumn, when all nature awakens refreshed from the long sleep of a burning summer. The ve- getable world arrays itself in a new mantle of vivid green, and the re- laxed fibres of animal life, braced by a purer atmosphere, regain their wonted vigour and elasticity. Then it is that all who possess the means abandon the shady streets and cool saloons of Italian cities, and hasten to enjoy the villeggiatura in the environs, or in the small and rural towns so numerous throughout Italy. I had passed the hot summer of 177 — , in Milan, where an enthusi- astic fondness for vocal music, and the various attractions of the superb and then admirably conducted opera-house, had induced me to linger for a period far exceeding my original intention, and to delay from day to day my proposed villeggiatura at a friend's villa on the lake of Como. My regular attendance at La Scala had made me acquainted with many of the performers ; but a congenial gaiety and thoughtlessness of cha- racter had drawn me into closer intimacy with the first tenor-singer, a handsome, and still young-looking man, of four-and-thirty, and well known to the musical world under his assumed name of M i, but whom I purpose to call Romanelli, his mother's name, which he pre- ferred to the fictitious one beforementioned. In his youth and early manhood, he had been a chorister at St Peter's, and had undergone precisely that kind of discipline in singing the longdrawn notes of Pa- lestrina and Allegri, which subsequently made him, in the opinion of all sound judges, the best singer of his time. His voice, originally, by his own confession, of limited range and power, had been expanded and matured by the admirable training of the Italian schools, into wide com- pass, severe purity of tone, and great facility of execution. He exer- cised, indeed, an equal and absolute controul over every note ; and, whe- ther high or low, loud or subdued, his tones were always beautifully round and true. He possessed also the rare faculty of clearly articulat- ing with every note its proper syllable ; making, at the same time, each separate letter distinctly audible. But these merits were, according to his notions, merely mechanical ; and within the reach of any one pos- sessing a good ear, a tolerable voice, and enduring powers of applica- tion. The peculiar excellence of Romanelli was in impassioned music : his recitativo, in scenes of strong excitement, was declamation of the highest order ; and not only was his emphasis rhetorically just, but his % / QUARTERLY LIST OF NEWjSUBSCRIBF.RS TO N. A. MAGA. $5 Philadelphia, Pa J. E. James, - - John S. Filchett, Charles B. Boberts, Chas. Naylor, - - 5 Mrs Rebecca Hood, American Fire Insu- rance Company, David Levine, - - 6 Mrs J. Lardner, William Kirk, James G. Clark, Mrs C. L. Smith, - - 5 Mrs T. N. Smith, 5 T. M. Rush, ... 5 Joseph Hacker, - - 5 John W. Ashmead, 5 Crawford Riddell, 5 R. K. Scott, - - - 5 R. Watkinson, - - 5 Aug: Barton, jr. P. S. Whitney, - - 5 Wm. N. Lacey, Thomas C. Loud, MrDeland, . - - 5 James Goodman, - 5 C. Harper, William B. Hart, Samuel P. 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Taylor, - ft Elisha Gamage, - - 5 B. Hanis. - - - - ft Walter De Lacey, - ft - - - 5 Walter 1'. Jones, P.M. 5 J. W. Slack, ... ft Annapolis, Aid. R. Swann, - - - $5 Honorable Chancel- lor Bland, - - - 5 Wm. H. Fitzhugh, 5 Hon. Judge Buchanan, 5 Thomas Duchett, - 5 Thomas Franklin, - 5 Samuel Maynard, - 5 Col. H. Maynardier, 5 C Continued on the. second page of this Number. J Sv Makers rac " s e, 2v v