life is quick and strong, for this earth alone has much and many things to embrace and enchain man's soul; but in death, the difference is as between night and day. To return to Mr Montgomery and his Poem-the time will come when he will meditate more deeply and truly on these things; and when some of the pictures in which he now, not altogether in vain, glories with the exultation of a young and not unsuccessful poet, will appear to him like water-colour paintings, that have been long exposed to the sun, and are faded quite, and that, never even when direct from the pallet, were tinted with the true hues of heaven. The poem concludes with a description of the final doom, which had better been spared, and which it pained and distressed us to read, as a worse than presumptuous attempt to deal,in a display of gorgeous and magnificent sounds, from which all true poetry and true piety are banished,-with the Day of Judgment. We beseech Mr Montgomery to let the poem conclude with "And thus 'twill be, till heaven's last thunders roar, And time and nature shall exist no more." That is a right ending. All that follows is a piece of most unintentional blasphemy. Never was there such a huddle and hubbub of blood-dyed seas, terrific meteors, "Of planet, moon, rent cloud, and down shot star," blazing furies, gigantic rays, wizard phantoms bright, roaring hurricanes, maniac winds, "white waves galloping with delirious roar," downward The deep unbosom'd with tremendous gloom, Yawns on the ruin like Creation's tomb !" Our solar system is destroyed-nay, the whole creation-and yet in the universe, in comes that pitiful and very midst of the wreck of the whole contemptible line, "Crush'd lie the rocks, and mountains are no more." He might as well have said, "Glasses are broken, upset every table!", Mr Montgomery must not be angry with us for the unrestrained freedom with which we tear his picture into tatters; nor must he deceive himself -nor allow others to encourage him in the deception-that his description of the burning universe is nearly as sublime as that of the destruction of the late Drury-Lane Theatre by fire, in the Morning Post. Worst of all, he is not awe-struck by his own visions. Had he shewed himself to be so, we should not have blamed him for not having produced the same effect upon us; but set down our indifference to the score of our own unimpressible imagination. What awe is there in such lines as these ? "How shall we turn our terror-stricken eye, To gaze upon the fire-throned Deity?" "But while the universe is wrapt in fire, Beneath a canopy of flame behold, Earth's Judge: around seraphic minstrels throng, Weave a wild death-dirge o'er departing Time." The concluding is indeed a " a" pauvre miserable." In describing the joys of Heaven, Mr Montgomery spoke of the immortal spirits of men riding on lightningcars round stars and planets, as if the universe were then all familiar to their flight. Here the whole universe, with all its suns, and moons, and stars, and planets, is annihilated-but into such senseless contradictions are men of genius led, when they undertake im possibilities, and strive to lash themselves up into a false inspiration. One would have thought that there was nonsense enough, and enough of worse than nonsense, in the preceding paragraph, to have opened Mr Montgomery's eyes to all its profane absurdities. But no-he keeps-not soar ing on wings-rushing in where angels fear to tread,-but absolutely staggering along on stilts. Thus he gives us again, in more offensive repetition, the description of that which, as seraphs saw, they veiled their eyes with their wings. "Upon the flaming Earth one farewell glance ; The billows of Eternity advance; No motion, blast, or breeze, or waking sound! In fiery slumber glares the world around! 'Tis o'er; from yonder cloven vault of heaven, Throned on a car by living thunder driven, Array'd in glory, see! th' Eternal come, And, while the Universe is still and dumb, And hell o'ershadow'd with terrific gloom, T'immortal myriads deal the judgment doom! Wing'd on the wind, and warbling hymns of love, Behold the blessed soar to realms above; The cursed, with hell uncover'd to their eye, Shriek-shriek, and vanish in a whirlwind cry! Creation shudders with sublime dismay, And in a blazing tempest whirls away !” Are there readers in all England, or Scotland, or Ireland, that will not only tolerate but admire this? What says to it, that learned, pious, and judicious man, the right reverend William Howley, D.D. Lord Bishop of London, to whom the poem is, by permission, most respectfully inscribed? Yet there is one passage, and only one-even here-which shews power, and had it not been surrounded by such worthless, and worse than worthless trash, might have been read by us with much emotion. In justice to Mr Montgomery, and with that satisfaction which we feel at every more successful exhibition of his power, we make it our concluding quotation. "Hark! from the deep of heaven, a trumpet sound Thunders the dizzy universe around; From north to south, from east to west, it rolls, A blast that summons all created souls; And swift as ripples rise upon the deep, All who have breathed, or moved, or seen, or felt; Such, then, is our opinion of a Poem, the beauties and deformities of which we have here pointed out with equal freedom, and in both cases enabled our readers, by sufficient specimens, to judge of the justice of our critical decisions. It has made a considerable impression on the public, and may almost be said to be a popular production. That is a proof of power in the young poet; and let his reception by the world, which has been more flattering than generally falls to the lot of a new poetical aspírant in these somewhat fastidious days, comfort him in any disappointment, or soothe him in any displeasure, which he may have felt in the perusal of this critique. Whatever may be thought by him or others of our critical taste and discernment in such matters, it seems to be generally felt and allowed that we speak from the heart; and that, whatever our er◄ rors may be in our judgment of poetry, they do not lie in the want of en thusiasm, nor in any indifference to wards the ambitious hopes and desires of genius. With a theme, in itself happier, and better fitted to his peculiar powers, which we suspect lie chiefly in the provinces of pathos, feeling, and fancy, we have no fears but that Mr Montgomery will ere long produce a poem far superior to the present; and whenever he does so, we shall be among the first to hail his anticipated improvement and success. To show our kindness towards him, we willingly mention, that other critics have bestowed on him far higher and more unqualified praise than we could conscientiously do,-placing him in the very highest order of poets. The Literary Gazette has said of the "Omnipresence of the Deity," "It is indeed, a magnificent and sublime composition, in the very highest class of English Sacred Poetry." The Literary Chronicle says, "Were the author never to write another line, he has wove a wreath which the most successful bard of the present day might be proud to wear." And the Athenæum, whose judgments are nearer our own, has said, "In the matter and substance of the Poem, originality and strength of talents are strongly visible; much beauty of description and pure feeling, a glowing and striking imagery, characterise its general style. We consider it as deserving a great share of public attention and applause." These respectable authorities are as much, some, perhaps, may think more, entitled to attention than ours; and we, therefore, most freely give Mr Montgomery the benefit of them, without wishing, in any degree, to quarrel with their opinion, or to qualify our own. That he may, and will, benefit by some of our strictures, we shall not for a moment allow ourselves to doubt; perhaps he may even be encouraged by our commendation. Let him by some nobler effort, prove that some of the former have been too severe or unjust, and that the latter has been too cautious or chary, and he will find us eager to make amends for any wrong done, or right omitted, to his genius, by a more eloquent and enthusiastic eulogy. משא בבל THE BURDEN OF BABYLON. SONG I. God denounces vengeance on Babylou, and summons his armies for her overthrow. Let the vengeance go forth, that within me is burning. "In the clouds of the heaven, though her throne should be set, "Yes: my vengeance I'll slake, by a judgment as dire So severe shall her fate be, I've sworn in mine ire, "Light your fires on the mountains, ye heroes! for war, "And her veteran warriors before you shall fail, 5 F "And ye, in your glory, shall vanquish the foe, Her thraldom no longer my people shall fear." Thus the mighty God of Heaven, In their fiercest spirits' glow to the field; To denude of all her state, And to give her the due fate And the Prophet saw, and knew And then but shortly mute was his tongue, And revolving on her doom, SONG II. The Prophet sings the certainty of Babylon's downfall. "Jehovah is holy, Jehovah is just, And punish the sins of the sinner he must; But Babel hath sinn'd-ay, her guilt who can tell? The God of our fathers, who God is alone, She worships, and serves not, and deigns not to own; And punish the sins of the sinner he must; And Jehovah is faithful, His truth shall not fail, Should bless with its virtue, yet sacred unmoved, He hath stretch'd out his arm, o'er the gainsaying nation, Woe-woe to her, therefore, since such is his word, "And Jehovah is powerful: His arm who can stay? Did the proud hosts of heaven-and who stronger than they? When they warr'd with their Lord, a bright triumph acquire? Oh! felt they not deeply the shock of his ire? Aye, doth he not bolts of omnipotence wield? Oh! where, in the day of his wrath, then, the shield Thus far, the Prophet sung, The least symptom, as of pain (As, in calmer mood, the case might have been)— Of sympathetic woe For the doom-devoted foe; Yet upon his face a glow It was that of holy ire, And yet brighter it had grown, As the aged Prophet sire Had with his strain gone on; For his wrath against the doom'd, for her sin, In his bosom so had swell'd, All soft feeling seem'd expell'd, Which formerly had held But anon roll'd wild his eyes- And his face look'd deathly white; And he listed, as in doubt and in fear: SONG III. Babylon is attacked and overthrown, "HARK! Hear ye the sounding- With noise as of war! 'Tis din of heaven's forces Their trumpets-their horses; Their march shall not mar. "So weighty-no, never Oh! sure, must the dead, |