on

*Here is a large web of fiction, involving a small fact of scrip-
ture! Nothing (he adds) could justify a work of this kind if it
were, in any way, calculated to impose on the credulity, pervert
the principles, or corrupt the affections of its approvers. Here
then the appeal lies to conscience rather than to taste, and the
decision on this point is of infinitely more importance to the
poet than his name among men, or his interests on earth." It
appears that Paradise Lost was received by the age,
which it throws back such lustre, with far from general appro-
bation; and that among the charges with which the author was
assailed, those of profaneness and impurity were not wanting.
It is not, however, to be regretted, where scripture truth is
concerned, that the innovations of the poet are so suspiciously
regarded. It is necessary that the rich ore of genius should
be proved-and proved by fire-before it receives that stamp
which is to give it universal currency. The World before
the Flood, however, is evidently the production of a pious mind,
without which qualification the talents which have been engaged
in it would have been perniciously employed on such a theme.
But
we have already detained the reader too long from the poem
itself, which will furnish the best illustration of these remarks.
The opening of the poem, though spiritedly written, is too
much like a continuation of the introductory note. It is with
the following magnificent lines that the action of the poem pro-
perly commences.

"The midnight watch was ended:-down the west
The glowing moon declined towards her rest;
Through either host the voice of war was dumb;
In dreams the hero won the fight to come;
No sound was stirring, save the breeze that bore
The distant cataract's everlasting roar,
When from the tents of Cain, a youth withdrew;
Secret and swift, from post to post he flew,
And pass'd the camp of Eden, while the dawn
Gleam'd faintly o'er the interjacent lawn.
Skirting the forest, cautiously and slow,
He feared at every step to start a foe;
Oft leaped the hare across his path, upsprung
The lark beneath his feet, and soaring sung:
What time, o'er eastern mountains seen afar,
With golden splendour, rose the morning star,
As if an angel-centinel of night

From earth to heaven, had wing'd his homeward flight,-
Glorious at first, but lessening by the way,

And lost insensibly in higher day."

Who was the fugitive ?

VOL. V. NO. IX.

The remainder of the canto is occupied with the delineation of his character and the story of his former life. He is represented as the offspring of a mother widowed at the hour of his birth, and the adopted charge of Enoch. In the patriarch's glen he passed the peaceful years of his infancy, but as his mind unfolded the poet's passion took possession of his breast. He grew impatient of inaction and restraint, and panted to explore the world which yet by fame alone he knew. Those wild and lonely moods in which the mind delights to transfuse itself into objects of material grandeur and beauty, as if it would extend itself over all creation, thus acquiring an indefinite enlargement of the pleasurable idea of existence-those restless and vague aspirings after freedom and glory which seem a super-added instinct of immortality, are pourtrayed by Mr. Montgomery with a depth of pathos peculiarly characteristic of his poetry. If the feelings which he describes enter into the experience and even the conception of few, we think the character cannot fail, notwithstanding, to interest the reader, from the striking individuality of the portrait, and from the reference which he will inevitably make to some supposed prototype, in which Javan the minstrel must have existed as a reality. Some of the lines remind us of Beattie's Edwin, but there is only a family resemblance: the principal features are essentially different. His mother dies. Not Enoch's counsels can longer restrain him.

"He fled, and sojourned in the land of Cain.
There, when he heard the voice of Jubal's lyre
Instinctive genius caught the ethereal fire;
And soon with sweetly modulating skill,
He learned to wind the passions at his will,

To rule the chords with such mysterious art,

They seemed the life-strings of the hearer's heart."

The following lines are exquisitely wrought: the simile in the last four is perfect of its kind, and strange to say of a simile! is as novel as it is striking

"Yet no delight the minstrel's bosom knew,

None save the tones that from his harp he drew,

And the warm visions of a wayward mind,

Whose transient splendour left a gloom behind
Frail as the clouds of sunset, and as fair,

Pageants of light resolving into air.

The world whose charms his young affections stole,
He found too mean for an immortal soul;

Wound with his life, through all his feelings wrought,
Death and eternity possessed his thought:

Remorse impelled him, unremitting care
Harass'd his path, and stung him to despair.
Still was the secret of his griefs unknown,
Amidst the universe he sigh'd alone:

The fame he followed and the fame he found
Heal'd not his heart's immedicable wound:
Admir'd, applauded, crown'd, where'er he rov'd,
The bard was homeless, friendless, unbelov'd.
All else that breathe below the circling sky
Were link'd to earth by some endearing tie;
He only, like the ocean weed uptorn,
And loose along the world of waters horne,
Was cast companionless from wave to wave,

On life's rough sea-and there was none to save."

After a ten years' exile he resolves to seek again his native Eden, now threatened by the invasion of the hosts of Cain under a giant leader. But to resign all his ambitious hopes must cost an agonizing struggle.-While he is yet wavering, the remembrance of Zillah fecurs in all the force of youthful passion

Love rose against the world, and love prevailed."

The second canto is wholly occupied with an interview between these antediluvian lovers, and detains the reader in the midst of the most delightful scenery, in which he might be content to linger, if curiosity did not make him impatient of the delay. The scene is aptly chosen, for the canto itself is a luxuriant wood, through which we are led on without making much progress our expectation continually excited in a new direction, and never disappointed-till at the end we are conducted to nearly the point at which we entered. The lovers meet, recognize each other, but abruptly separate without a disclosure. It contains some passages of uncommon beauty, but we must

reserve our extracts.

In the third canto the interest of the poem rises. In describing the return of the prodigal to the home of his childhood, and his reconciliation to Enoch, the poet has borrowed the simple and touching language of the parable. Such appropriations of Scripture passages are certainly allowable, when they do not violate their primary spirit and character, nor, by introducing any fanciful or arbitrary associations, disturb their bearings or contract their proper scope. Where the poet is successful-and any thing short of success is disgraceful failure-he obtains for his own poetry something of the sacred impressiveness of truth, while it sheds new beauty and illustrative light on the original. Perhaps there are few poets who have with such felicity of accommodation

enriched their poetry with imagery and associations borrowed from the sacred writings. The reader anticipates the reception which the penitent meets with from the patriarch. The filial wish expressed by these words, "O live the years of Adam!" and the pious recollections of Enoch, who closed his eyes, prepare us for the fourth canto, in which Enoch narrates the circumstances of his death. Had the whole poem possessed the elevation of thought and the sublime interest by which this portion of it is characterized, it would have been, indeed, worthy of the biographer of Adam's innocence. Mr. Montgomery has evidently put forth all his powers-yet without the appearance of effort-in the delineation of the character of our universal parent: and it is perhaps the best proof of his success, that the thoughts themselves, though we are conscious of their novelty, are immediately admitted as probable, if not necessary truths, and as such become at once identified with our antecedent knowledge or belief. The portrait he has drawn is so harmonious in its proportions—so full of life, that it instantly approves itself to our feelings, as a likeness. It was perhaps a daring attempt-a noble daring, to exhibit in all the severity, but in all the majesty of truth, the death-bed of the first transgressor; and to rely on the force and dignity of the sentiments, to which the fiction forms but a slight drapery, for all its interest. We say the severity of truth, becanse leaving theologians to discuss whether such a degree of clearness was imparted to the mental sight of Adam as the poet has represented, the essential reality of the scene is independent of that consideration. We are fearful, however, that some will resent the intrusion of such an appeal to the heart and the conscience as is herein involved, and having opened the volume from curiosity, will close it here with the feeling of disappointment. The Adam of Milton is a beautiful ideal, wearing the semblance of human nature. The Adam here pourtrayed is "the fiction that represents truth, and that is truth." We gaze on Milton's majestic Adam with admiration mixed with awe, but it is the catastrophe of his fall which chiefly awakens our sympathy. In Mr. Montgomery's poem (we merely state the effects, without measuring or comparing the minds of the poets themselves) it is the fallen penitent, the dying saint, the man, the father, over whom we weep, and in whose sorrows we reverently sympathize. We rely on the impression of the whole narrative, rather than on any detached passages, for justifying these remarks, but we will venture to give the following.

"With him his noblest son might not compare
In godlike feature and majestic air;

Not out of weakness rose his gradual frame,
Perfect from his Creator's hand he came;
And as in form excelling, so in mind
The sire of men transcended all mankind:
A soul was in his eye, and in his speech
A dialect of Heaven no art could reach;
For oft of old to him, the evening breeze
Had borne the voice of God among the trees;
Angels were wont their sense with his to blend,
And talk with him as their familiar friend.
But deep remorse for that mysterious crime,
Whose dire contagion through elapsing time
Diffused the curse of death beyond control,
Had wrought such self-abasement in his soul,
That he, whose honours were approach'd by none,
Was yet the meekest man beneath the sun.
From sin, as from the serpent that betray'd
Eve's early innocence, he shrunk afraid;
Vice he rebuk'd with so austere a frown,
He seem'd to bring an instant judgment down,
Yet while he chid, compunctious tears would start,
And yearning tenderness dissolve his heart:
The guilt of all his race became his own,
He suffered as if he had sinn'd alone.
Within one glen to filial love endear'd
Abroad for wisdom, truth, and justice fear'd,
He walk'd so humbly in the sight of all,
The vilest ne'er reproach'd him with his fall.
Children were his delight; they ran to meet
His soothing hand, and clasp his honour'd feet;
While midst their fearless sports supremely blest,
He grew in heart a child among the rest:
Yet as a parent, nought beneath the sky
Touch'd him so quickly as an infant eye;
Joy from its smile of happiness he caught,
Its flash of rage sent horror through his thought:
His smitten conscience felt as fierce a pain,
As if he fell from innocence again."

The fifth canto is scarcely inferior to the preceding. The patriarchs are assembled on the anniversary of the fall of Adam at a solemn sacrifice.

"Foremost, amidst the group, was Enoch seen,
Known by his humble port, and heavenly mien :
On him the priest's mysterious office lay,
For 'twas the eve of man's trangression-day,
And him had Adam, with expiring breath,
Ordain'd to offer yearly, from his death,