disquisitions, in which the Poem abounds, would be imperfect without some allusion to the Christian creed, The interlocutors-eloquent as they all are-say but little on that theme; nor do they show-if we except the Priest-much interest in it-any solicitude; they may all, for any thing that appears to the contrary, be deists.

Now, perhaps, it may be said that Wordsworth was deterred from entering on such a theme by the awe of his spirit. But there is no appearance of this having been the case in any one single passage in the whole poem. Nor could it have been the case with such a man—a man privileged, by the power God has bestowed upon him, to speak unto all the nations of the earth, on all themes, however high and holy, which the children of men can feel and understand. Christianity, during almost all their disquisitions, lay in the way of all the speakers, as they kept journeying among the hills.

"On man, on nature, and on human life,
Musing in Solitude!"

But they, one and all, either did not perceive it, or, perceiving it, looked upon it with a cold and indifferent regard, and passed by into the poetry breathing from the dewy woods, or lowering from the cloudy skies. Their talk is of "Palmyra central, in the desert," rather than of Jerusalem. On the mythology of the Heathen much beautiful poetry is bestowed, but none on the theology of the Christian.

Yet there is no subject too high for Wordsworth's muse. In the preface to the "Excursion," he says daringly—we fear too daringly,—

"Urania, I shall need

Thy guidance, or a greater muse, if such
Descend to earth, or dwell in highest heaven!
For I must tread on shadowy ground, must sink
Deep-and aloft ascending, breathe in worlds
To which the heaven of heavens is but a veil.
All strength-all terror-single or in bands,
That ever was put forth in personal form,
Jehovah with his thunder, and the choir

Of shouting angels, and the empyreal thrones;
pass them unalarm'd!"

I

Has the poet, who believes himself entitled to speak thus of the power and province given to him to put forth and to possess, spoken in consonance with such a strain, by avoiding, in part of the very work to which he so triumphantly appeals, the Christian Revelation? Nothing could have reconciled us to a burst of such-audacitywe use the word considerately-but the exhibition of a spirit divinely embued with the Christian faith.

For

what else, we ask, but the truths beheld by the Christian Faith, can be beyond those "personal forms," "beyond Jehovah," "the choirs of shouting angels," and the "empyreal thrones?"

This omission is felt the more deeply-the more sadly -from such introduction as there is of Christianity; for one of the books of the "Excursion" begins with a very long, and a very noble eulogy on the Church Establishment in England. How happened it that he who pronounced such eloquent panegyric-that they who so devoutly inclined their ear to imbibe it-should have been all contented with

"That basis laid, these principles of faith

Announced,"

and yet throughout the whole course of their discussions, before and after, have forgotten apparently that there was either Christianity or a Christian Church in the world?

We do not hesitate to say, that the thoughtful and sincere student of this great poet's works, must regard such omission-such inconsistency or contradictionwith more than the pain of regret; for there is no relief afforded to our defrauded hearts from any quarter to which we can look. A pledge has been given, that all the powers and privileges of a Christian poet shall be put forth and exercised for our behoof-for our delight and instruction; all other poetry is to sink away before the heavenly splendour; Urania, or a greater muse, is invoked; and after all this solemn, and more than solemn preparation made for our initiation into the mysteries, we are put off with a well-merited encomium on the Church of England, from Bishop to Curate inclusive; and though we have much fine poetry, and some high philosophy, it would puzzle the most ingenious to detect much, or any, Christian religion.

Should the opinion boldly avowed be challenged, we shall enter into further exposition and illustration of it; meanwhile, we confine ourselves to some remarks on one of the most elaborate tales of domestic suffering in the Excursion. In the story of Margaret, containing, we believe, more than four hundred lines-a tolerably long poem in itself-though the whole and entire state of a poor deserted wife and mother's heart, for year after year of "hope deferred, that keth the heart

sick," is described, or rather dissected, with an almost cruel anatomy—not one quivering fibre being left unexposed—all the fluctuating, and finally all the constant agitations laid bare and naked that carried her at last lingeringly to the grave-there is not-except one or two weak lines, that seem to have been afterwards purposely dropped in-one single syllable about Religion. Was Margaret a Christian?-Let the answer be yesas good a Christian as ever kneeled in the small mountain chapel, in whose churchyard her body now waits for the resurrection. If she was then the picture painted of her and her agonies, is a libel not only on her character, but on the character of all other poor Christian women in this Christian land. Placed as she was, for so many years, in the clutches of so many passions she surely must have turned sometimes—ay, often, and often, and often, else had she sooner left the clay-towards her Lord and Saviour. But of such "comfort let no man speak," seems to have been the principle of Mr Wordsworth; and the consequence is, that this, perhaps the most elaborate picture he ever painted of any conflict within any one human heart, is, with all its pathos, repulsive to every religious mind— that being wanting without which the entire representation is vitiated, and necessarily false to nature-to virtue to resignation-to life-and to death. These may seem strong words-but we are ready to defend them in the face of all who may venture to impugn their truth.

This utter absence of Revealed Religion, where it

ought to have been all-in-all-for in such trials in real life it is all-in-all, or we regard the existence of sin or sorrow with repugnance-shocks far deeper feelings within us than those of taste, and throws over the whole poem to which the tale of Margaret belongs, an unhappy suspicion of hollowness and insincerity in that poetical religion, which at the best is a sorry substitute indeed for the light that is from heaven. Above all, it flings, as indeed we have intimated, an air of absurdity over the orthodox Church-of-Englandism-for once to quote a not inexpressive barbarism of Bentham-which every now and then breaks out either in passing compliment amounting to but a bow-or in eloquent laudation, during which the poet appears to be prostrate on his knees. He speaks nobly of cathedrals, and minsters, and so forth, reverendly adorning all the land; but in none -no, not one of the houses of the humble, the hovels of the poor into which he takes us-is the religion preached in those cathedrals and minsters, and chanted in prayer to the pealing organ, represented as the power that in peace supports the roof-tree, lightens the hearth, and is the guardian, the tutelary spirit of the lowly dwelling. Can this be right? Impossible. And when we find the Christian religion thus excluded from Poetry, otherwise as good as ever was produced by human genius, what are we to think of the Poet, and of the world of thought and feeling, fancy and imagination, in which he breathes, nor fears to declare to all men that he believes himself to be one of the order of the High Priests of nature?

Shall it be said, in justification of the poet, that he