out. Yet this much we are able to do in
the speculations of our philosophy: We can inquire, in this light, what
are the grounds of evidence which nature and reason themselves offer for
belief in the same truths. A like remark must be extended to the
morality which we seem now to inculcate from the authority of human
reason. We no longer possess any such independent morality. The spirit
of a higher, purer, moral law than man could discover, has been breathed
over the world, and we have grown up in the air and the light of a
system so congenial to the highest feelings of our human nature, that
the wisest spirits amongst us have sometimes been tempted to forget that
its origin is divine.

Had "The Excursion" been written in the poet's later life, it had not
been so liable to such objections as these; for much of his poetry
composed since that era is imbued with a religious spirit, answering the
soul's desire of the devoutest Christian. His Ecclesiastical Sonnets are
sacred Poetry indeed. How comprehensive the sympathy of a truly pious
heart! How religion reconciles different forms, and modes, and signs,
and symbols of worship, provided only they are all imbued with the
spirit of faith! This is the toleration Christianity sanctions--for it
is inspired by its own universal love. No sectarian feeling here, that
would exclude or debar from the holiest chamber in the poet's bosom one
sincere worshipper of our Father which is in heaven. Christian brethren!
By that mysterious bond our natures are brought into more endearing
communion--now more than ever brethren, because of the blood that was
shed for us all from His blessed side! Even of that most awful mystery
in some prayer-like strains the Poet tremblingly speaks, in many a
strain, at once so affecting and so elevating--breathing so divinely of
Christian charity to all whose trust is in the Cross! Who shall say what
form of worship is most acceptable to the Almighty? All are holy in
which the soul seeks to approach him--holy

"The chapel lurking among trees,
Where a few villagers on bended knees
Find solace which a busy world disdains;"

we feel as the poet felt when he breathed to the image of some old
abbey,--

"Once ye were holy, ye are holy still!"

And what heart partakes not the awe of his

"Beneath that branching roof
Self-poised and scoop'd into ten thousand cells
Where light and shade repose, where music dwells