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And stripp'd of light fictitiously assumed,
By some detecting angel, shrunk dismay'd
And shiver'd, in thy vast exposure seen!
Thee would I shape, thou colosséan mind!
And what, though sad humanity's broad taint
Of weakness here and there thy soul beplagued ;
Or, harshly quick, or too severely loud,
Some intonations of thy spirit rose
(When from the thunder-cloud of sacred ire
Within thee falsehood call’d the lightnings out,
Or temper's flash round principle did flame),-
Yet in the greatness of thy glorious work
Right nobly art thou, like a second Paul,
Apparent, graced with apostolic mind;
Waving that banner, on whose blood-stain'd fold
Thy naine, Immanuel ! at each ruffling blast

Of conflict beams with sudden brightness forth!
Here follows the “divine prologue:"-

How much of God to build a man it takes !
That mental structure, for whose living walls
Eternity and truth foundations are !
A man, we mean, whose attributes his name
Exalt, and body all its grandeurs forth ;
Not human whirlwinds, who have havock'd earth,
And blasted nature with a bloody sweep
Of rage or ruin !—fiends in flesh are they,
Form'd by themselves from blackness, sin, and shame,
And eloquent throughout of hellish guile
And origin. But when a man complete,
Rounded and finish'd into full-orb'd grace,
On earth at length is destined to alight,-
E’en like some new apocalypse from heaven,
Truthful and deep, and most divinely touch'd
In faculty of heart and mind,-he shows

In each high lineament the plastic God! Let common sense, not to speak of chastened judgment, construe these passages, inquire into the meaning of the phrases and terms, and pronounce upon the incautiousness of the penman; and as severe a criticism as we can utter, will be Mr. Montgomery's due. “How much of God to build a man it takes!" will not escape reprobation. Our next is from a canto called “the mystery;" and mysterious enough it is in all conscience !

Above, beneath, around, where'er we move
Or live, an atmosphere of myst’ry floats,
For ever baffling, with its gloom unpierced
The pride of reason's analytic gaze.

E'en like that pillar, which of cloud and fire
Contemper'd, to the pilgrim church bestowed
A guidance solemn, through untrodden wilds,
So, human knowledge, in this world forlorn,
In shade and light alternately prevails,
Too dark for pride, too shining for despair.
And thus, accordant with our state corrupt,
From truth to truth the educated mind
Through shades of awe is humblingly advanced ;
But noble ignorance, that knows itself,
Kneels in the shadow of the Mercy-seat,

And prays the heart to piety and love. If examples are required of mere words, they are to be got without end. Take the following out of many about night :

How eloquent is night!-- when all the stars
Unseal their eyelids, and with loving gaze
This world salute, till our attracted souls
Responsively their looks of love return-
When thoughts, which plunge themselves in Deity,
Or through the starr'd immensity career,
Exulting waft the mind on reckless wing,
Through visioned scenes, immeasurably vast,
And bright with orbs unnumber'd as unnamed,
Till earthward dropping, on exhausted plume,
Like the aw'd Psalmist of the night, it feels
A soft religion from the sky descend,
A charm'd humility that preaches thus:
"Say, what is Man, when paragon'd with Worlds !
How mean a speck, how miserably small,
Minute beyond minuteness to portray,

Creation where he walks, and weeps, and dies !" “When thoughts, which plunge themselves in Deity” is surely startling phraseology; but it is thoroughly Montgomery-like, just as there are sundry pet words and epithets that are thrust in by the shoulders with an offensive and inappropriate profusion, and until they lose all euphony. “Apocalypse" is one of these; “ millenial" is in the same predicament. We proceed to give another example of absurdities:

Inventive man would fain achieve
What Scripture only to th' Eternal gives
In plan and purpose for His crowning work.
Thus all are prophets, to themselves at least,
And preach perfection possible below:
But can corruption to itself be cure ?
Yet still it tries, nor will Heaven's cure allow,
Nor dip in Jordan till Damascus fails !

But man is ruin; ff rebuilt he rise,
'Tis not by rubbish from himself begot,
But by a means transcendingly divine.
The creed within forms character without,
And God alone can educate the will ;
But will makes man in all essential powers,
And therefore must he, by omnific grace
Beyond himself, through heavenly love be rais'd,
Or still be changeless in his moral core.
Yes, to the last the leper will remain ;
The skin may whiten, but the blood is black,
And burns in secret with a plague-spot there!

Now for turgid unseemly exaggerations :

Behind our veiling drapery of sense,
Baffl’d we are from darting forth one glance
Of mental knowledge; or the heart, methinks,
Might dream, when Luther's disembodied soul
Pass'd from the flesh to join the spirit-throng,
Eternity a new sensation felt,
And the high dead, wherever localised,
Did welcome him to glory, as he took

His throne among them like a sainted king ! We conclude with a feeble panegyric. Printing is the theme, and a thousand times has its praises been proclaimed in statelier prose :

But in this prologue of preparing means
Heaven-moulded, chief and prime of arts immense,
See Printing rise that miracle of powers !
That bids the past become perpetual now,
Gives reason sway, imagination shape,
To time a soul, to thought a substance lends,
And, with ubiquity almost divine,
For living permanence and local power
Each ray of soul immortally endows.
Thou great embalmer of departed mind!
Thou dread magician! by whose mental charm
A mournful, pale, and solitary man,
Who pines unheeded, or who thinks unknown,
Long after dust and darkness hide his grave,
Himself can multiply with magic force
Beyond all-reaching language to explore,
And the wide commonwealth of minds may

With sway imperial !—who can image thee?
Whether to Heaven uplifting mind and man,
Or, Hell-ward both seducing, like a fiend ?
Boundless in each thine unremember'd sway!

Thine was a voice whose resurrection-blast
Peal'd through the catacombs where buried mind
For cent'ries lay: and lo, with living might
The fathers burst their cerements, and breathed ;
Dead intellect from classic tombs came forth
Quicken'd, and into active substance changed
By thy vast potency; and then was felt
The pith of thought, the marrow of the mind
Itself transfusing, like a second life,
The old absorbing as with heat divine.
And since that moment have not books become
Our silent prophets, intellectual kings,
And hierarchs of human thought
To vice or virtue ? Are they not like shrines
For truth ? cathedrals where the heart
Can worship, or in tranquil hours retreat
To meet the spirit of the olden time?
For there the drama of the world abides
Yet in full play.


ART. VIII.-1. Lives of the Queens of England. By Agnes STRICKLAND.

Vol. IV. Colburn. 2. The Chronicles of England ; a Metrical History. By George Ray

W. Smith. Miss Strickland's “ Lives of the Queens of England, from the Norman Conquest, with Anecdotes of their Courts, now first published from official records and other authentic documents, private as well as public," has reached the fourth volume, commencing a new series, viz., the Queens of the House of Tudor, and promises to increase in respect of interest as she advances further. Our authoress has arrived at an era where original facts relative to her heroines are much fuller than during the earlier periods which have occupied her. In this present section of the publication we have the lives of Elizabeth of York, consort of Henry the Seventh, and the first five wives of Henry the Eighth,—viz., Katherine of Arragon, Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour, Anne of Cleves, and Katherine Howard.

With regard to the character of these “Lives" in a critically literary sense, it is hardly possible to speak in terms too high, if the industry of the writer be merely understood in collecting authorities and materials from all existing sources of information, and even in ferreting out facts and illustrations that to a less honest or vigilant historian might be deemed trivial and insignificant. And yet Miss Strickland has not at her command the most vigorous method of treatment; for, while her style is diffuse, and dashed with the feebleness of prettiness, she falls into the snare of guessing largely

in the absence of authentic evidence ; so that it may be questioned whether she produces the striking historical effect which several existing national works, by Hume and others, have bequeathed to us, not only of the genius and complexion of particular ages, but of the royal dames who shared the throne with some of the most celebrated of the kings of England. Our authoress ekes out her narrative with long accounts of progresses, and the draperies, so to speak, of royalty, rather than supplies us, when the record is scanty, with the real and undoubted events of the period.

We have truly hinted, however, that the present volume introduces us to a period of time and a series of characters that are surrounded by much more abundant light than what illustrated the lives of the preceding queens. Besides, the matrimonial alliances of Henry the Eighth are rendered most remarkable not merely as engagements of the kind, and on account of their tragical passages, but in consequence of the public historical interest attached to the events which the tyrant contrived to combine with his lustful enormities. And here we must observe that a female historian, in the present more circumspect and artificial days, is scarcely in a condition to allow her to tell the whole unvarnished truth, and to picture fully the manners of a grossly licentious court. For example, Miss Strickland does not find that her pen is at full liberty to discuss the evidence bearing upon the consummation of Prince Arthur's marriage.

After all, these lives are a valuable contribution to our historical literature; for they are agreeable specimens of biography, and have besides for heroines, ladies of whom we have only incidental notices in pre-existing works, or whose fortunes have to be gathered from crabbed or almost inaccessible channels. The history of the heiress of the Plantagenet kings, Elizabeth of York, to quote an illustrious example, who blended “ the rival roses of York and Lancaster in her bridal wreath," has partly been sought for in the curious metrical narration called the “ Song of the Lady Bessey." The account given of this narrative by Miss Strickland, will amply reward a careful perusal. But it is by far too long for our pages; and therefore we shall, in the first instance, content ourselves with an extract containing our authoress's remarks on the long prevailing prejudice in favour of the Salic law in the case of the princess. Says Miss Strickland,

The treaty of betrothment privately negotiated between Elizabeth of York and Henry of Richmond by their respective mothers, was the first gleam of comfort that broke on the royal prisoners in sanctuary after the murder of the innocent princes in the Tower. The young princess promised to hold faith with her betrothed ; in case of her death before her contract was fulfilled, her next sister Cecily was to take her place. But it is a singular fact, that neither at this time, nor at any other period of her life, was the slightest proposal made by the partisans of the house of York,

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