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Much of the Soul they talk, but all awrie,
And in themselves seek virtue, and to themselves
All glory arrogate, to God give none,
Rather accuse him under usual names,
Fortune and Fate, as one regardless quite
Of mortal things. Who therefore seeks in these
True wisdom, finds her not, or by delusion,
Far worse, her false resemblance only moets,
An empty cloud."
Thus have great poets regarded the vain subtleties of philosophy. Their office is to speak to a nation, and they speak in its language—not the language of a class to whom alone it is given to know the mysteries which are hidden under a few unpopular words. It is the undying interest of their theme which gains for them such a universal regard, such an attentive hearing. No matter in what form it may appear, the substance is ever the same. In the Faery Queene it is tender, sentimental, endearing, and entreating. In Paradise Lost, it is unrelenting, stern, impassive, and exacting. It is fervent, loving, and deeply emotional in the Cottar's Satarday Night. While in Shakespeare it is pathetic, just, merciful, and discriminating; well balanced the most of all. As "mercy becomes a throned monarch better than his crown," so religion becomes a great poet better than all his fame. If religion be, as it is, a matter of vital concern to a man of the meanest capacity, is it of no moment to a man of genius? Will intellect alone sweeten life, and secure an eternity of happiness? Does a great understanding dull the apprehension of the undimmed beauty of religion? Concerning all this we know to the contrary, "Tis mightiest in the mightiest." It is the centre round which their genius has circled, and which finally sheds a halo over it. The world were dark indeed, but for that light. Socrates and Cicero longed for it, and would
