SONNETS. Was it some sweet device of faëry That mocked my steps with many a lonely glade, In those fine eyes? methought they spake the while METHINKS how dainty sweet it were, reclin'd With thy free tresses all a summer's day, WHEN last I roved these winding wood walks green Her image only in these pleasant ways Meets me self-wandering, where, in happier days, I held free converse with the fair-hair'd maid. I passed the little cottage which she lov'd, ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN. I SAW where in the shroud did lurk Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying: She did but ope an eye, and put A clear beam forth, then straight up shut For the long dark: ne'er more to see Through glasses of mortality. Riddle of destiny, who can show What thy short visit meant, or know What thy errand here below? Shall we say, that Nature blind Check'd her hand, and changed her mind, Just when she had exactly wrought A finish'd pattern without fault? Could she flag, or could she tire, Or lack'd she the Promethean fire (With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd) Limbs so fair, they might supply And cut the branch; to save the shock Of young years widow'd; and the pain, And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark, That has his day; while shrivel'd crones Which pale death did late eclipse; Music framed for infants' glee, Whistle never tuned for thee; Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them, Loving hearts were they which them. Let not one be missing; nurse, gave See them laid upon the hearse JAMES MONTGOMERY was born in Irvine, Ayrshire, in 1771. His parents belonged to the church of the United Brethren, commonly called Moravians,-a sect by no means numerous in England, and still more limited in Scotland. Having previously sojourned for a short time at a village in the Irish county of Antrim, they placed the future Poet at the school of their society, at Fulnick, near Leeds, and embarked for the West-Indies, as missionaries among the negro slaves. They were the victims of their zeal and humanity; the husband died in Barbadoes, and the wife in Tobago. After remaining two years at Fulnick, and, like other men of genius, disappointing the expectations of his friends, as a student "from very indolence," he was placed by them in a retail shop at Mirfield, near Wakefield. This ungenial employment he considered himself-not being under indentures-at liberty to relinquish at the end of two years, with a view to try his fortune in the great world. After spending other two years at a village near Rotherham, and a few months with a bookseller in London, he engaged as an assistant with Mr. Joseph Gales, of Sheffield, who published a newspaper;-to the management of which, in 1794, he succeeded. This, though conducted with comparative moderation, exposed him to much enmity-rather inherited from his predecessor than actually incurred by himself. The liberty of the press, in those days, was, like Faith, "the substance of things hoped for;" a sentence of condemnation, or even a word of reproach against men in "high places," was punished as libellous. Montgomery did not indeed share the fate of some of his stern sectarian forefathers; but, in lieu of maiming and pillory, he had to endure fine and imprisonment. Within eighteen months, and when he had scarcely arrived at manhood, his exertions in the cause of rational freedom had twice consigned him to a gaol. During the thirty years that followed, however, he was permitted to publish his opinionswithout being the object of open persecution. Wearied out, at length, he relinquished his newspaper, in 1825. Recently one of the government grants to British Worthies has been conferred upon him; and-it must be recorded to his honour-by Sir Robert Peel. The Poet continues to reside in Sheffield,-esteemed, admired, and beloved: a man of purer mind, or more unsuspected integrity, never existed. He is an honour to the profession of letters; and, by the upright and unimpeachable tenor of his lifeeven more than by his writings-the persuasive and convincing advocate of religion. In his personal appearance, Montgomery is rather below than above the middle stature: his countenance is peculiarly bland and tranquil; and, but for the occasional sparklings of a clear grey eye, it could scarcely be described as expressive. Very early in life Montgomery published a volume of poems. They were not, it would appear, favourably received by the public; and, he writes, the disappointment of his premature poetical hopes brought with it a blight, which his mind has never recovered. "For many years," he adds, "I was as mute as a moulting bird; and when the power of song returned, it was without the energy, self-confidence, and freedom, which happier minstrels among my contemporaries have manifested." The Wanderer of Switzerland was published in 1806; the West Indies, in 1810; the World before the Flood, in 1813; Greenland, in 1819; the Pelican Island, in 1827: he has since contented himself with the production of occasional verses. Those who can distinguish the fine gold from the "sounding brass" of poetry, must place the name of James Montgomery high in the list of British Poets; and those who consider that the chiefest duty of such is to promote the cause of religion, virtue, and humanity, must acknowledge in him one of their most zealous and efficient advocates. He does not, indeed, often aim at bolder flights of imagination; but if he seldom rises above, he never sinks beneath, the object of which he desires the attainment. If he rarely startles us, he still more rarely leaves us dissatisfied; he does not attempt that to which his powers are unequal,-and therefore is, at all times, successful. To the general reader, it will seem as if the early bias of his mind and his first associations had tinged-we may not say tainted-the source from whence he drew his inspirations, and that his poems are." sicklied o'er" with peculiar impressions and opinions which fail to excite the sympathy of the great mass of mankind. We should, however, recollect, that, although he has chiefly addressed himself to those who think with him, his popularity is by no means confined to them; but that those who read poetry for the delight it affords them, and without any reference to his leading design, acknowledge his merit, and contribute to his fame. THERE is a calm for those who weep, Low in the ground. The storm that wrecks the winter sky That shuts the rose. I long to lay this painful head |