JAMES MONTGOMERY.

MONTGOMERY, JAMES, an English poet; born at Irvine, in Ayrshire, Scotland, November 4, 1771; died at Sheffield, April 30, 1854. He began to write verses before he was ten. In 1786 he was placed under a tradesman at Mirfield, Yorkshire; after a year he ran away to Wath, where he took a similar position, which he held for five years. In 1792 he removed to Sheffield to assist in conducting the "Register," a Liberal paper; this passed into his control two years later, and its name was changed to the "Iris." He edited it till 1825. Under the oppressive laws of that era he was twice fined and imprisoned, in 1795 and 1796, the second time for an alleged seditious libel. His "Prison Amusements," written in jail, appeared in 1797. It was followed by "The Wanderer of Switzerland" (1806); "The West Indies" (1809); "The World before the Flood" (1812); "Greenland" (1819); "The Pelican Island" (1827). He is known most widely by his "Hymns." He also published "Prose by a Poet, Lectures on Poetry and English Literature" (1833). In 1835 he was pensioned, and declined the chair of rhetoric in Edinburgh University.

THE COMMON LOT.

ONCE, in the flight of ages past,

There lived a man and who was he?
Mortal, howe'er thy lot be cast,

That man resembled thee.

Unknown the region of his birth,

The land in which he died unknown:
His name has perished from the earth,
This truth survives alone:

That joy and grief, and hope and fear,
Alternate triumphed in his breast:
His bliss and woe a smile, a tear!
Oblivion hides the rest.

The bounding pulse, the languid limb,
The changing spirits' rise and fall,
We know that these were felt by him
For these are felt by all.

He suffered - but his pangs are o'er;
Enjoyed - but his delights are fled;
Had friends his friends are now no more ;
And foes- his foes are dead.

He loved - but whom he loved the grave
Hath lost in its unconscious womb:
Oh, she was fair — but naught could save
Her beauty from the tomb.

The rolling seasons, day and night,

Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, Erewhile his portion, life and light,

To him exist in vain.

The clouds and sunbeams o'er his eye,

That once their shades and glory threw,

Have left in yonder silent sky

No vestige where they flew.

THE OLD MAN'S SONG.

SHALL man of frail fruition boast?
Shall life be counted dear,

Oft but a moment, and at most
A momentary year?

There was a time that time is past

Like me, through varying seasons range, And past enjoyments mourn:

The fairest, sweetest spring shall change To winter in its turn.

In infancy, my vernal prime,
When life itself was new,

Amusement plucked the wings of Time,
Yet swifter still he flew.

Summer my youth succeeded soon,
My sun ascended high,

And pleasure held the reins till noon,
But grief drove down the sky.

Like Autumn, rich in ripening corn,
Came manhood's sober reign;
My harvest-moon scarce filled her horn,
When she began to wane.

Close followed age, infirm old age,

The winter of my year;

When shall I fall before his rage,
To rise beyond the sphere?

I long to cast the chains away
That hold my soul a slave,
To burst these dungeon-walls of clay
Enfranchised from the grave.

Life lies in embryo - never free

Till Nature yields her breath;

Till Time becomes Eternity,
And man is born in death.

NIGHT.

NIGHT is the time for rest:

How sweet, when labors close,

To gather round an aching breast

The curtain of repose,

Stretch the tired limbs and lay the head

Down on our own delightful bed!

Night is the time for dreams:

The gay romance of life,

When truth that is, and truth that seems,

Mix in fantastic strife:

Ah, visions, less beguiling far
Than waking dreams by daylight are!

Night is the time for toil:

To plough the classic field,
Intent to find the buried spoil
Its wealthy furrows yield,
Till all is ours that sages taught,
That poets sang, or heroes wrought.

Night is the time to weep:

To wet with unseen tears
Those graves of memory where sleep
The joys of other years;

Hopes, that were angels at their birth,
But died when young, like things of earth.

Night is the time to watch:
O'er ocean's dark expanse
To hail the Pleiades, or catch

The full moon's earliest glance,
That brings into the homesick mind
All we have loved and left behind.

Night is the time for care:

Brooding on hours misspent,
To see the spectre of Despair
Come to our lonely tent;
Like Brutus, midst his slumbering host,
Summoned to die by Cæsar's ghost.

Night is the time to think:

When from the eye the soul

Takes flight, and on the utmost brink

Of yonder starry pole

Discerns beyond the abyss of night

The dawn of uncreated light.

Night is the time to pray:

Our Saviour oft withdrew
To desert mountains far away;

So will His follower do,

Steal from the throng to haunts untrod,

And commune there alone with God.

Night is the time for death:
When all around is peace,
Calmly to yield the weary breath,

From sin and suffering cease,

Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign
To parting friends. Such death be mine!

FRIENDS.

FRIEND after friend departs;

Who hath not lost a friend?
There is no union here of hearts,
That finds not here an end.

Were this frail world our only rest,
Living or dying, none were blest.

Beyond the flight of time,

Beyond this vale of death,
There surely is some blessed clime
Where life is not a breath,
Nor life's affections transient fire,
Whose sparks fly upward to expire.

There is a world above

Where parting is unknown A whole eternity of love

Formed for the good alone;
And faith beholds the dying here,
Translated to that happier sphere.

Thus star by star declines,
Till all are passed away,

As morning high and higher shines
To pure and perfect day;

Nor sink those stars in empty night;

They hide themselves in heaven's own light.