Belial; whose heart inclined to abomination, and whose soul hungered after the flesh-pots of Rome."

Still less likely was it that he should be a favourite with the King's party; who, as if to oppose their conduct in every point to the preciseness of their antagonists, were reckless, intemperate, and dissolute, in proportion to the rigid sobriety, and unbending austerity of their republican foes. The one party perverted religion; the other affected to despise it. With neither of these then was George Herbert likely to be a favourite.

By the cavaliers after the Restoration, who inherited the vices of their ancestors, with fewer of their virtues, Herbert was entirely neglected. Indeed, it was impossible that the men, whose chief delight was in the ribald wit of such writers as Wycherley and Congreve, could find a single responsive chord in "the divine Herbert's" lyre.

With the reign of Queen Anne, a totally different style of poetry was introduced. Public taste underwent a complete change: nothing would now suit but the smooth, terse, satiric couplet, of which Pope may justly be termed the father; but which, however pleasing it may have been, when tempered and polished by his elegant taste and brilliant wit, soon, in the hands of inferior poets, degenerated into a monotonous, empty, filigree style of versification, which fully justified Cowper's complaint, that poetry had become

Throughout all this period, we find little or no

mention of Herbert; and it was not till after the days of Cowper, who was the first to wake men from their Siren-like enchantment into which this melodious, though insipid, poetry had lulled them, that Herbert's writings again attracted notice; their fame gradually widened round; men, in search of relief from the monotony which had so long palled on their ear, were delighted with the originality of his thoughts, and the quaintness of his conceits, so totally distinct from anything that their own age had produced. But there was still wanting one essential qualification to the full enjoyment of his peculiar Muse; which is so well defined by the great philosopher and poet, from whom we have taken our motto, that we cannot do better than quote his words: "To appreciate this poet, it is not enough that the reader possesses a cultivated judgment, classical taste, or even poetic sensibility, unless he be likewise a Christian, and both a zealous and an orthodox, both a devout and a devotional Christian. But even this will not quite suffice. He must be an affectionate and a dutiful child of the Church, and from habit, conviction, and a constitutional predisposition to ceremoniousness, in piety as in manners, find her forms and ordinances aids of religion, not sources of formality; for religion is the element in which he lives, and the region in which he moves." May we not, then, also take it as a strong evidence of the improving spirit of our own times, that Herbert has, probably, more readers and admirers at present, that he has had from the day, when, on his death-bed, he consigned his book to the charge of his friend, Mr.

Farrar, down to the birth of the (so-called) Lake School of Poetry. Let us remember, too, when we hear the people lamenting the depravity of our own times, that George Herbert, whose very name was, little more than a century since, scarcely known, save to a few divines or antiquarians, now forms a necessary part of every library; while all the witty profligates of former times are merely retained as links in history, and as affording a melancholy proof of the degeneracy of the of which they were the ornament and delight.

age

With regard to the peculiarities of Herbert, we should constantly keep in mind the times, and the character of the men, among whom he lived, and must make allowances for the influence which they must necessarily have had over all his writings. Many readers are discouraged by his extreme quaintness, and complain of the difficulty of tracing out his meaning through the tortuous labyrinths of his thoughts; but they should reflect, that this fault, this "enigma of thoughts," belonged to the age, not the man; and though perhaps he is quainter than all others, yet that this arose from his being gifted with a more lively and powerful imagination, which, following the current of public taste, was naturally more exuberant and abundant in that channel, in proportion to its greater powers. We should also consider, on reading his poems, that, as he said himself, they are "a picture of the many spiritual conflicts that have passed betwixt God and my soul, before I could subject mine to the will of Jesus my master, in whose service I have now found perfect freedom."

In this light we should place it, and if read in the same spirit of meek fervent piety, and pure humble Christian charity in which it was written, we doubt not that all would acknowledge that his own wish, that it might turn to the advantage of some poor dejected soul, is in a fair way of being realised. He is little to be envied, that can rise from reading Herbert's poetry, and yet not feel his thoughts raised, and his feelings purified. There is such an indescribable charm, such grace, and dignity, and above all such pure religion in every sentence that he utters, that we cannot help reiterating a sentiment with reference to him, that a saint of our own Church expressed regarding St. Paul, “that it would be the greatest of all boons to pass but one day, nay, but one hour, in his company." A. M. S.

(To be continued.)

"Strenua nos Exercet Inertia."

O! what avails it wretched man to live,
When all his life, his energies are gone?
I'm weary of this world! What would I give
To sleep a sleep of calm oblivion ;

And never more to hear the sound of men,
Outstripping me in life's laborious race;
Or bask in nature's pleasant smile, and then
Feel far the vilest 'neath her glorious face.
For thou, alas! for thou art with me still,

Thou bane of my existence, Idleness!
Father of sorrow, root of every ill,

Marrer of present, future happiness.

O, I have fought against thee-I have known

Fierce pangs, fierce strivings of the Spirit-vain!
Still bows my head at thy detested throne,

Still groans my

heart beneath thy heavy chain.

Yet is there One Supreme in sorrow's hour,
To whom the afflicted cannot fly too late,
Trusting in Him, I'll break the Siren's power,
And rise superior to the vulgar fate.

As the bold war-horse, loosened from the rein,
Rushes at last impetuous to the fray-

Or some wild torrent thunders to the plain,

Bursting its rocky bonds, and maddened by delay.

e.

THE BANSHEE.

It was a winter's evening, and wildly shrieked the blast,
And the Shannon's swollen tide was rolling hurriedly and fast;
Dark, frowning o'er its waters, stood the castle of Killaine;
And on his bed the bold Baron lay, moaning low with pain.

The winds loud howled, the lightnings flashed, without the turrets

grey,

And shadowy spirits flitted round, and winged their airy way;
Within his lady softly hovered o'er the sick man's bed,
And in her snowy hand held his, and bathed his burning head.

""Tis not the fever in my breast that kills," the Baron cried; ""Tis not the fire that burns my head, for that I could abide :"Ten years ago, this very night, by yonder river's flood, "Close by my side, my first-born son, my greatest treasure stood; "And in a fit of passion fierce, this right hand struck him in,"And now I stand on hell's black brink, to expiate my sin."