ur own only daughter--filling our life with bliss, and
then leaving it desolate. Even now we see her ghost gliding through
those giant woods! As for "Lochiel's Warning," there was heard the voice
of the Last of the Seers. The Second Sight is now extinguished in the
Highland glooms--the Lament wails no more,

"That man may not hide what God would reveal!"

The Navy owes much to "Ye Mariners of England." Sheer hulks often seemed
ships till that strain arose--but ever since in our imagination have
they brightened the roaring ocean. And dare we say, after that, that
Campbell has never written a Great Poem? Yes--in the face even of the
Metropolitan!

It was said many long years ago in the _Edinburgh Review_, that none but
maudlin milliners and sentimental ensigns supposed that James Montgomery
was a poet. Then is Maga a maudlin milliner--and Christopher North a
sentimental ensign. We once called Montgomery a Moravian; and though he
assures us that we were mistaken, yet having made an assertion, we
always stick to it, and therefore he must remain a Moravian, if not in
his own belief, yet in ours. Of all religious sects, the Moravians are
the most simple-minded, pure-hearted, and high-souled--and these
qualities shine serenely in "The Pelican Island." In earnestness and
fervour, that poem is by few or none excelled; it is embalmed in
sincerity, and therefore shall fade not away, neither shall it
moulder--not even although exposed to the air, and blow the air ever so
rudely through time's mutations. Not that it is a mummy. Say rather a
fair form laid asleep in immortality--its face wearing, day and night,
summer and winter, look at it when you will, a saintly--a celestial
smile. That is a true image; but is "The Pelican Island" a Great Poem?
We pause not for a reply.

Lyrical Poetry, we opine, hath many branches--and one of them,
"beautiful exceedingly" withbud, blossom, and fruit of balm and
brightness, round which is ever heard the murmur of bees and of birds,
hangs trailingly along the mossy greensward when the air is calm, and
ever and anon, when blow the fitful breezes, it is uplifted in the
sunshine, and glows wavingly aloft, as if it belonged even to the
loftiest region of the Tree which is Amaranth. That is a fanciful,
perhaps foolish form of expression, employed at present to signify
Song-writing. Now, of all the song-writers that ever warbled, or
chanted, or sung, the best, in our estimation, is verily none ot