anxiety felt by this royal lady to enlarge her acquaintance with Christian doctrine was evidenced, moreover, by her regular attendance on the catechetical instruction imparted to the Princesses, her daughters, as well as by the deep interest with which she frequented the Confirmation services of several clergymen in Berlin. Rich was the enjoyment, as well as great the edification, which she derived from her familiarity with the spiritual treasures contained in the German hymnology. Nor can her doctrinal views be more plainly pointed out than by a reference to her favourite hymns: "I've found at length the anchorage, On which hope can be firmly cast.' And "Bide with us in thy grace, O Lord, For evermore; that we, The examples of heroic faith, so richly furnished by the history of the middle ages and the Reformation, but above all, a familiar acquaintance with Luther and his works, constituted a large share of the reading and contemplations of this exalted lady. Such qualities of heart and mind could not fail to exercise an allpowerful influence on the outward conduct; and it is impossible, in sorrowing for the loss which the Prussian kingdom and royal family, and which, indeed, the Christian world at large, has sustained by the removal of this ornament to her religious profession, not to advert to the period at which her virtues shone forth, to the conviction even of many who knew not God. In those years of political oppression and national distress, which were consequent on the French occupation, the Princess Marianne was, not only an angel of hope to the desponding patriot, but an angel of mercy to those who were suffering from the evils of war. Even yet the tear of gratitude gathers in the eye of many a hoary veteran, when he relates how the Princess William herself visited the lazaretto, refreshed the wounded with her sympathy, and cheered the downcast with her hope-fraught ex hortations. While her royal husband was valorously fighting for the honour and safety of his country, his illustrious consort placed herself at the head of a female association, at that time formed in Berlin, for attending and nursing the wounded, and for relieving the widows and orphans whom war had made. As she was the first to suggest the name of "Union" (Verein) for this private association, so she either presided over, or actively joined, almost all the other societies for benevolent purposes, which from that period arose within her sphere; so that the name of charitable" Unions" came to be identified with that of the Princess William. In all the places of her more permanent residence, whether in Berlin, or in the delicious retreats of Fischbach in Silesia, countless sorrows were soothed, countless sufferings relieved ; and daily proofs of that unwearied beneficence come now to our knowledge, the greater part of which was at the time known only to "Him who seeth in secret." Money, too, was by far its least valuable form of expression. The sympathizing visits which this pious princess was wont to make, and the Christian consolation and encouragement which she ever carried with her, to the hut of poverty, or the couch of sickness, rendered her very presence a refreshment and a cordial. Her warm interest in all missionary enterprises is evidenced by the extensive correspondence which she personally carried on with various missionaries, and by which she strove to encourage them in their arduous and self-denying labours. Letter-writing, indeed, was a gift which her royal highness possessed in no ordinary degree, and turned into an instrument of incalculable good in various circles of society. There is, perhaps, no task more difficult to the Christian, especially when associated with the great ones of the earth, than the skilful blending of social and religious duties. In this the Princess William displayed much of " the wisdom that is from above," and that "is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, and easy to be intreated, Even full of mercy and good fruits." Without withdrawing herself from all participation in the court life, to which she was bound by her position, she had grace to convert it into a means of usefulness, by winning respect and affection for her principles. art and science were objects of a becoming degree of interest, whenever their highest aim, the glory of God, and the display of his wonders in creation was thereby promoted. Her palace was, therefore, the resort not only of distinguished men of learning, but of poets and of artists; and many a work of genius, which for want of means might have remained for ever in embryo, saw the light through her assistance or intercession. The family circle which she most delighted to bless, is no subject for public notice; it may, however, be stated, without disrespect, that, from the period of the ever-lamented death of Queen Louisa, the Princess Marianne enjoyed an almost maternal reverence from every member of the royal family, and that her friendship with the reigning queen was of that affectionate nature which results, where family ties are, as in this case, sanctified, ennobled, and even rendered more tender, by entire unity of Christian faith. The tears of sorrowing regret and gratitude, which bedewed the tomb, and still hallow the remembrance, of this admirable lady, are a touching testimonial to the blessings which God in his providence imparted by her means, not only to a family, but to a nation. Long will even the lowest classes bless the memory of Princess William, as the succourer of the distressed, the comforter of the mourner, but especially as the beneficent attendant of the wounded warrior. Long will those of her household, or intimate acquaintance, speak with pleased emotion of the example of domestic happiness, and quiet family duty, which her daily life exhibited, when the nursery and the school-room received each a portion of her maternal superintendence. And long will pious church-goers retain the image of her devout weekly attendance, along with her illustrious consort and children, at the house of God. In full accordance with this life of the righteous was her latter end. Severe bodily suffering was the appointed furnace in which her faith was to be tested and purified; and never, perhaps, were sufferings borne with a more child-like submission, a more unmurmuring cheerfulness. It is true, no alleviation, which affection or attendance could afford, was wanting to smooth the passage to the tomb. Among others who hastened to discharge a daughter's duty, was the Crown Princess of Bavaria, accompanied by her amiable and accomplished consort, to whose future advent to the Bavarian throne the Protestants of that country look forward with joyful hope, and whose beautiful monody on his royal mother-in-law does equal credit to his feelings as a man, and his talents as a poet. And yet, we may well suppose, that the maternal heart yearned to embrace one absent dear one, the Prince Waldemar, who, all unconscious of his mother's danger, was gathering laurels in the East, with the British army. But this unfulfilled wish was cheerfully relinquished, and her dying blessing left for him whom in this life she was never more to see. And, after she had suffered according to the will of God, and borne testimony to his sustaining power amid nature's sharpest pangs, He was pleased to release her from all evil, on the 14th of April, 1846, and to conduct her to the ranks of those, "who having come out of great tribulation, and having washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb, stand, with palms in their hands, before the throne of God, and serve him day and night in his temple." CHRISTIAN POETRY. No. IV. (For the Christian Guardian.) A NARROW and scantily furnished cell opens before us, gloomy withal, only the sunshine pours through a straitened inlet on the pallid crucifix, deepens to a richer brown the heavy cowl that has just fallen from the head of yonder monastic scribe, touches for an instant the shining pen he holds, and glitters on a clew of golden wire, or anon, upon the blue and scarlet pigments, with which he is illuminating the vellum on the desk before him. A fair tome will erelong be added to the library of the house, costly, indeed, for neither purple dye, nor stones of price, nor fretted clasps will be spared in its decoration. Yet, the monkish hymns, so carefully indit ed, so richly adorned, are but the restrained breathings of a dim and fettered heart; and therefore we are fain to quit with hasty steps the dreary cell where our own respiration seems impeded, and after refreshing ourselves awhile with the scent of the orange blossoms, and the songs of free-hearted birds, in the garden of the monastery, wend our way, as aforetime, across perilous waters, and traverse ancient roads, till we find ourselves, ages since, in some lonely burial-place, our rude lamp burning at our side; or, somewhat later, in a fair basilica awaiting the coming of worshippers, whose feelings gushed from their hearts like a fount of living waters (into a quaintly moulded chalice occasionally,) when compared with certain turbid utterances of the middle ages. We have penned these lines, having at the moment on our desk a few delectable compositions ascribed to Spanish priests and monks of those, in truth, miserable times. With a prosaic ditty of Gonzalo Berceo, or the Latin doggrel of Juan Egidio, ringing in our ears, we could, with an entire heart, wish ourselves turning giddy on the antithetical pinnacles" of Gregory Nazianzen, or, at a later period even slumbering over the de votional acrostics of another Christian poet. We would not wish you to believe, gentle reader, that we have any intimate acquaintance with monastic hymnology, which may, and in a few instances, we believe, does possess, greater beauties than we wot of: we have only for a moment peered into the misty region of which we have spoken, but the glimpse, more especially in the direction of Spain, has sufficed, so far as our personal taste is concerned. We have been told, indeed, that the Spanish breviary and martyrology contain hymns of no little merit, dating about the ninth century, but as we have never read them, we must, as becomes our ignorance, be silent, only observing, that the superscriptions "on Saints Emilia, Hieremia, Pomposa," &c., do not look very inviting in our eyes. As a sign of grace however, we quote part of an old Spanish hymn, whose gloomy grandeur, we hope, may not be quite lost in our paraphrase:— In heaven and earth was wailing, The fount of noon was failing, And dark the billows rolled That shone erewhile as gold; "My God! my God! I yield to thee My spirit, and the gift is free." He spake, the sinless priest and willing, 5 A cry, with fear, the mid-earth thrilling; O day! by angel or by man Beheld not since the world began! 6 ja When Golgotha's dread floor was quaking, The God, his holy house forsaking. An hour it was for weeping, Through earth's dim heart was creeping Cold horror of the deed, f כו That God, for man, should bleed, ว On Golgotha's dread pavement lying, While He, the Prince of Life was dying, We also quote a very old sonnet of monastic origin, at least it is sup What may be the date of the Spanish hymn we have quoted we know not, as we have never met with the original, though the good-will on our part has not been wanting. With regard to the dreary effusions before alluded to, we may remark, that very shortly after some of these dismal harpings swelled on the ear, from the cloisters of Spain, the eagle cry of Dante, now soaring in mid-air, now diving into fathomless abysses, thrilled the heart of Italy; and in England, like the carol of the first awakened song-bird at day-break, the clear voice of Chaucer arose, prelude to an outpouring of melody from our island brakes and thickets, such as may well be the rejoicing of the world. The monotonous music of the monastery gradually died away; in truth, the monkish harp was snatched from the hands of the minstrel, and shattered to atoms under feet rude and barbarous we allow, though we cannot very sincerely regret the deed. We observed in our last paper that Poetry, in its distinctive form, does not thrive beneath the shadows of Rome; and with the history of English poetry before us, a remembrance of the broken and subdued, yet half prophetic utterances of foreign poets, we are confirmed in the assertion. So early as the days of Chaucer, the life of the Reformation began to shew itself among the dry bones with which all lands were strewn, and amid the mighty names of those who followed him in the paths of song, but one or two can be claimed by Rome as in heart and spirit her obedient children. It was in no quaint monastic cell, such as that we described awhile since, but it may be, on the borders of a summer wood, the nightingales singing in its glades, brother answering brother across the moonlit valley, that when the thoughts of Spenser were of angels, he murmured to himself and the stream at his feet those beautiful lines How oft do they their silver bowers leave Oh, why should heavenly God to man have such regard ! We would fain direct our eyes towards translation which appeared about a year since, if we are not mistaken, in the Christian Guardian. We may, perhaps, be asked why, having attempted no accurate and connected view of Christian Poetry, we should place disjointed fragments before the reader? and we will briefly answer the imagined query. We have attempted no accurate and methodical view of our subject, because it seems to us, that such an undertaking would scarcely benefit the pages of a periodical, and we have, moreover, reasonable doubts with respect to our own capabilities. We have given here and there a fragment, characteristic of different ages, and diverse climes, because throughout these papers, light and defective as we confess them to be, we have kept in view an object indicated in the first number. We there alluded to the trite monotony, distinguishing much of the religious poetry of the day, and we did this with unfeigned earnestness, caring little should our harsh judgment return heavily on our own shoulders, if only our feeble voice might induce one or two readers or writers of verse to give the matter serious consideration. It seems to us that a more general acquaintance with the devotional poetry of different ages and lands might do something to raise the tone of Protestant religious poetry, as it appears in the corners of very many periodicals. In such a guise it has often appeared, that it is somewhat marvellous, the readers of the same, have not sensibly diminished, unless we have had amongst us a greater number than might have been supposed, of those simple-minded persons, who believe very indifferent prose, cut up into tolerably equal lengths, and equipped with capital letters at one end, and rhymes at the other, to be veritable poetry; or those other well-ordered minds, who receive as such any tame variety of sentiment that walks abroad in the world maintaining the discreet pace of a smooth and accurate versification. What may be the present condition of the Castalian fount we know not, though we have heard that the peasants in its vicinity employ its waters for very homely and domestic purposes; we imagine, however, that it sparkles in the water-urn, and trips from rock to rock, after the rustic fashion observed by the brooks and runnels of our own barbaric clime; and to be literal, we could wish the religious verse of the day sparkling and clear, natural and unrestrained in its gushings, as a mountain rill. The lamentable inconsistencies of her children, have induced many prudent individuals to look rather coldly upon poetry, when she has appeared on their thresholds, yet, it may be, they are scarcely justified in closing their doors against her as sometimes they do. Rude and quaintly fashioned is the casket, the coarse, dark-coloured shell that conceals the jewel of the sea, as day by day, in silence and in darkness, it grows into beauty: the breathless diver digs it from the slime and sands of the deep, amongst brown and tangled weeds it lies yawning on the shore, while the pearl of price passes from hand to hand, from brow to brow, till at last it finds a restingplace on a queenly forehead. Who thinks of the rugged ocean casket, who thinks of the wound, and, it may be, the suffering, that gave existence to the gem, while men are exchanging the pearl for a kingly ransom? Will the reader care to know the interpretation of our uncouth parable? Truth to say, in our meditations upon poetry we have been perplexed, as many wiser than ourselves have been, to observe the marked discrepancies between the utterance and the conductyes, and often between the utterances themselves, of the children of song; we have marvelled that pure thoughts and blessed imaginations should have had their origin in a heart desperately and, as it has often proved, hopelessly corrupt, growing day by day in beauty, like the sea-jewel in the rude shell, almost buried in the slime of the deep waters, but at length brought into the pure light of day, the joy of many, even Christian eyes, the casket remaining corrupt and ill-fashioned as ever. We have marvelled at the parti-coloured web so often spun from the inner heart of the poet, where all that is most lofty and pure, holy and fervent, has mingled with the loathsome and the vile, the selfish and the despicable. You, reader, like ourselves, must have sometimes hearkened to melodies surpassing in fervour as in beauty, swept from harps that anon gave forth tones such as might fitly have awakened in the deepest and darkest chamber of a Pagan fane, and of which, if we catch |