I Wish I Was As Sure Of

It Was Before Deity Embodied In A Human Form Walking Among Men, Partaking Of Their Infirmities, Leaning On Their Bosoms, Weeping Over Their Graves, Slumbering In The Manger, Bleeding On The Cross, That The Prejudices Of The Synagogue, And The Doubts Of The Academy, And The Pride Of The Portico, And The Fasces Of The Lictor, And The Swords Of Thirty Legions Were Humbled In The Dust.

A Beggarly People, A Church And No Steeple.

If Any Person Had Told The Parliament Which Met In Terror And Perplexity After The Crash Of 1720 That In 1830 The Wealth Of England Would Surpass All Their Wildest Dreams, That The Annual Revenue Would Equal The Principal Of That Debt Which They Considered An Intolerable Burden, That For One Man Of

Re: Robert Montgomery's Poems His Writing Bears The Same Relation To Poetry Which A Turkey Carpet Bears To A Picture. There Are Colours In The Turkey Carpet Out Of Which A Picture Might Be Made. There Are Words In Mr. Montgomery's Writing Which, When Disposed In Certain Orders And Combinations,have Made, And Will Make Again, Good Poetry. But, As They Now Stand, They Seem To Be Put Together On Principle In Such A Manner As To Give No Image Of Anything In The Heavens Above, Or In The Earth Beneath, Or In The Waters Under The Earth.

We Never Could Clearly Understand How It Is That Egotism, So Unpopular In Conversation, Should Be So Popular In Writing.