Glory to Him, omnipotent, all-wise-
Only Creator of all nature Lord-
The Omnipresent-everlasting God-
The One Pure Spirit.

Thus, but with words of thrilling power, they sang;
And with the chorus, far above, I heard,
Filling the immense of that majestic vault,
Sounds of invisible instruments :-vast harps
Full chording now; now an aerial voice
Dropping down crystal notes, or floating round
With a pervading power, as if the air

Ran over with sweet sounds: now came at once
A burst as of a thousand deep-toned trumpets,
That all the temple quaked, and then a pause,
Such as the tempest leaves when gathering up
Its might to rage the more. Anon there rose,
As if in the far ether, other sounds,
Voices and instruments, in full accord,
Yet gentle as the breeze that o'er the meadows
Sighs in a still May-night, nor shakes the dew
From out the bosoms of the sleeping flowers.
Nearer and nearer rapidly it came,

Swelling and deepening:-Voices now were heard
Chanting in harmony with those below;
With utterance distinct, and heavenly sweet:
And instruments of glorious tone and power,
Such as earth knows not. Nigher still nigher
The viewless choir came on:-there was a sound
As of a tempest rushing round the dome:
Trumpets and cymbals, crystal-toned, and peals
As of gigantic organs blowing full.

Louder, yet louder it came on: the sounds

Deepened and spread like an o'erwhelming flood:-
The million mighty voices more and more

Arose exultingly:-th' invisible band

Drew nigher still and nigher. But, at once,

Through all the eternal dome deep thunders rolled.

I saw, descending from its utmost height,

A dark cloud edged with lightning:-sure I felt

As if in presence of the Eternal One!

My senses reeled:-the mountain seemed to shake,—

The temple to and fro appeared to swing,

The voices and the instruments grew faint,

Then sank at once into an awful hush!

I saw the astonished millions on the floor

Stretched prostrate—and the dark cloud opening.

66

This magnificent passage reminds us of Beethoven's immortal Hallelujah chorus in his "Mount of Olives." It is a tremendous burst of the richest music; it is "like deep-toned thunder, blended with soft whispering rain-drops." There is much of the rising grandeur of Haydn's "New Created World:" it is the song of the spheres, the hymn of creation; it is as thrilling to the senses as when a star gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud." It has something of the stateliness of Mozart's minstrelsy; there is the liquid harmony of "dulcet instruments," and "silver stir of strings," and then out swells the gorgeous sounds rolling onwards with the ocean's dash of everlasting waters. Our feelings, when we first listened, enraptured at the strain, were as strangely moved as “when from the naked top of some bold headland, we beheld the sun rise up and bathe the world in light." It was "like the open gate of heaven, through which we saw far-extended gardens of joy."

Our poet seems maddened with the splendour of his own vision, and infuses into the strain a spirit-stirring energy. One has scarcely time to breathe for its mighty sweeps. And what a sublime impression it leaves on the mind of the greatness and majesty of God: the awful hush-the prostrate millions-the darkness breaking into beauty!

Our poet stands again on the mountain's brow: the worship had ceased-the hymn had faded-the music had died away-the temple gates were closed-the glorious intelligences had departed. All was still; the thistle's down floated on the gentle breeze.

Onwards they fly; the sun sinks to a star, and then is lost in the distance; they approach the dim wreck of

a world; its forests remained entire, not a leaf had fallen—the rivers and the ocean were frozen—the magnificent cities uplifted their massive architecture to the heavens every temple was perfect, and its bright inhabitants lay as if in pleasant dreams. All in one dark hour had perished: some were slumbering beside the crystal fountains, and some on the banks of a once murmuring lake. In the odoriferous gardens reposed a harper with his harp, and on his bosom the form of his own fair one—all fresh, all beautiful as if they were to wake at morn. No perfumes rose from the empurpled flowers; there was no sound of falling waters; the winds slept; not a breeze stirred; the air was "still as an icy sea."

Again they wing their way, cleaving "the fathomless obscure." The spirit-guide describes the creation of a starry system; and then ceased, and confusion seized our poet. Gigantic shapes seemed to mock, and then passed away; and beautiful forms came and soothed him; these faded, and the silver luna put on a darkness, and he swept on rapid pinions through the immensity of space. The fires and the lurid flames shot upwards, and sunk again; and there were roarings and bellowings as of some boundless sea. He stood before a glorious sun and its revolving planets; and its intelligences sang a hymn to the spirit of eternal beauty; then it mouldered away "in night and solitude." He sped onwards, and the face of his radiant guide was oft turned on him, appearing like some full-orbed moon, but more beautiful and bright. Then came the new creation, with its matin song of peace and joy; then all was wrapped in gloom, and there was a solemn pause. "All after was a blank," a dim, dull blank, as

if "life had been for years suspended."

and

The sea was whispering quietly beneath;
The evening breeze was on the hills: and lo!
Just touching on the rim of the wide waters,
The sun himself, sinking in lonely grandeur.

He awoke,

EDWARD IRVING.

Many people suppose that poetry is something to be found only in books, contained in lines of ten syllables, with like endings; but wherever there is a sense of beauty, or power, or harmony, as in the motion of a wave, in the growth of a flower, that spreads its sweet leaves to the air, and dedicates its beauty to the sun,' there is poetry in its birth. If history is a grave study, poetry may be said to be a graver; its materials lie deeper, and are spread wider. History treats, for the most part, of the cumbrous and unwieldy masses of things, the empty cases in which the affairs of the world are packed, under the heads of intrigue or war, in different states, and from century to century; but there is no thought or feeling that can have entered into the mind of man, which he would be eager to communicate to others, or which they would listen to with delight, that is not a fit subject for poetry. It is not a branch of authorship; it is the stuff of which our life is made.' The rest is mere oblivion,' a dead letter, for all that is worth remembering in life is the poetry of it. Fear is poetry, hope is poetry, love is poetry, hatred is poetry, contempt, jealousy, remorse, admiration, wonder, pity, despair, or madness, are all poetry. Poetry is that fine particle within us that expands, rarifies, refines, raises our whole being: without it, 'man's life is poor as beasts'."-HAZLITT.

To the memory of the great, and holy, and Titanic Edward Irving, we inscribe the contents of this paper; it is a token of our lasting regard and lasting admiration. He was the first man whom we learned to love: the story of his life affected us more strangely than the history of a Dante or a Luther: his was a marvellous tale. Hallowing are the feelings with which we gaze on the portrait of this magnificent man!-there it is,