JAMES MONTGOMERY,

AUTHOR of The World before the Flood, The West Indies, Songs of Zion, and several other poems of great beauty, has also published a most interesting volume styled Prose by a Poet, and was for several years editor of a newspaper at Sheffield.

The general character of Montgomery's poetry has been likened to that of Cowper.

THE GRAVE.

THERE is a calm for those who weep,

A rest for weary pilgrims found,
They softly lie and sweetly sleep
Low in the ground.

The storm that wrecks the winter sky
No more disturbs their deep repose,
Than summer evening's latest sigh
That shuts the rose.

I long to lay this painful head

And aching heart beneath the soil,

To slumber in that dreamless bed
From all my toil.

For Misery stole me at my birth,

And cast me helpless on the wild;

I perish;-O my mother earth!

Take home thy child!

On thy dear lap these limbs reclined
Shall gently moulder into thee;
Nor leave one wretched trace behind
Resembling me.

Hark! a strange sound affrights mine ear,

My pulse-my brain runs wild,-I rave, Ah! who art thou whose voice I hear? "I am the grave!

"The grave, that never spake before,

Hath found at length a tongue to chide; Oh, listen!-I will speak no more:

Be silent, Pride!

"Art thou a wretch of hope forlorn,
The victim of consuming care?
Is thy distracted conscience torn
By fell despair?

"Do foul misdeeds of former times

Wring with remorse thy guilty breast, And ghosts of unforgiven crimes

Murder thy rest?

"Lashed by the furies of the mind,

From wrath and vengeance would'st thou flee; Ah! think not, hope not, fool! to find A friend in me.

"By all the terrors of the tomb,

Beyond the power of tongue to tell!
By the dread secrets of the womb!
By death and hell!

"I charge thee, live!-repent and pray:
In dust thine infamy deplore,
There yet is mercy;-go thy way

And sin no more.

"Art thou a mourner? Hast thou known

The joy of innocent delights?

Endearing days for ever flown,

And tranquil nights?

"Oh! live; and deeply cherish still
The sweet remembrance of the past:
Rely on heaven's unchanging will
For peace at last.

"Art thou a wanderer? Hast thou seen

O'erwhelming tempests drown thy bark? A shipwrecked sufferer hast thou beenMisfortune's mark?

"Though long of winds and waves the sport,
Condemned in wretchedness to roam,
Live! thou shalt reach a sheltering port,
A quiet home.

"To friendship didst thou trust thy fame,
And was thy friend a deadly foe,
Who stole into thy breast to aim
A surer blow?

"Live! and repine not o'er his loss,
A loss unworthy to be told;
Thou hast mistaken solid dross
For Friendship's gold.

"Go seek that treasure, seldom found,
Of power the fiercest griefs to calm,
And soothe the bosom's deepest wound,
With heavenly balm.

"In woman hast thou placed thy bliss,

And did the fair one faithless prove?
Hath she betrayed thee with a kiss,
And sold thy love?

"Live! 'twas a false, bewildering fire:
Too often Love's insidious dart

Thrills the fond soul with sweet desire,
But kills the heart.

"A nobler flame shall warm thy breast,

A brighter Maiden's virtuous charins! Blessed shalt thou be, supremely blessed, In Beauty's arms.

"Whate'er thou art-whoe'er thou be,
Confess thy folly,-kiss the rod,
And, in thy chastening sorrows, see
The hand of God.

"A bruised reed He will not break;
Afflictione all his children feel;
He wounds them for his mercy's sake;-
He wounds to heal!

"Humbled beneath his mighty hand,
Prostrate his Providence adore:
"Tis done! Arise! He bids thee stand,
To fall no more.

"Now, traveller in the vale of tears!
To realms of everlasting light,
Through Time's dark wilderness of years,
Pursue thy flight.

"There is a calm for those who weep,
A rest for weary pilgrims found;
And while the mouldering ashes sleep
Low in the ground,

"The soul, of origin divine,

God's glorious image freed from clay, In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine, A spark of day!

"The sun is but a spark of fire,

A transient meteor of the sky;

The soul, immortal as its Sire,
Shall never die!"

THE STRANGER AND HIS FRIEND.

A POOR wayfaring man of grief

Hath often crossed me on my way,
Who sued so humbly for relief,

That I could never answer, "Nay."
I had not power to ask his name,
Whither He went, or whence He came;
Yet there was something in his eye
That won my love,-I knew not why.

Once, when my scanty meal was spread,
He entered;-not a word He spake ;-
Just perishing for want of bread,

I gave Him all; He blessed it, brake,
And ate;-but gave me part again;
Mine was an angel's portion then,
For while I fed with eager haste,
That crust was manna to my taste.

I spied Him, where a fountain burst

Clear from the rock; his strength was gone: The heedless water mocked his thirst:

He heard it, saw it hurrying on:

I ran to raise the sufferer up;

Thrice from the stream He drained my cup,
Dipt, and returned it running o'er;

I drank, and never thirsted more.

'Twas night; the floods were out,-it blew A winter hurricane aloof;

I heard his voice abroad, and flew

To bid Him welcome to my roof;

I warmed, I clothed, I cheered my guest;
Laid Him on my own couch to rest;
Then made the earth my bed, and seemed
In Eden's garden while I dreamed.