JAMES MONTGOMERY.

THIS amiable man, whose poetry is so justly esteemed by the public, has lately given to the world a volume both curious and talented, entitled "The Chimney-Sweeper's Friend and Climbing Boy's Album," which contains much beautiful poetry from various poets on this heart-rending subject. The profits are laudably given to "The Society for bettering the Condition of the Climbing Boys of Sheffield."

The poems of which the greater part of the book is composed (for at least one third of it is prose), are unequal. None, however, it must be confessed, make a very near approach to mediocrity. Those from the pens of Messrs. Bowring and Montgomery "stick fiery off indeed." Our space precludes the possibility of our giving both: we therefore present the reader with the one written by the Editor of this interesting volume. The being who can read it unmoved, must be heartless indeed.

"A WORD WITH MYSelf.

I know they scorn the Climbing Boy,
The gay, the selfish, and the proud;

I know his villainous employ

Is mockery with the thoughtless crowd.

So be it-brand with ev'ry name
Of burning infamy his heart;
But let his country bear the shame,
And feel the iron at her heart.

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I cannot coldly pass him by,

Stript, wounded, left by thieves half dead ; Nor see an infant Lazarus lie

At rich men's gates, imploring bread.

A frame as sensitive as mine;

Limbs moulded in a kindred form;

A soul degraded, yet divine,

Endear to me my brother worm.

He was my equal at his birth,

A naked, helpless, weeping child; And such are born to thrones on earth, On such hath ev'ry mother smil'd.

My equal he will be again,

Down in that cold oblivious gloom, Where all the prostrate ranks of men Crowd without fellowship the tomb.

My equal in the Judgment Day,

He shall stand up before the throne, When ev'ry veil is rent away,

And good and evil only known.

And is he not mine equal now

Am I less fall'n from God and truth

Though "Wretch" be written on his brow,

And leprosy consume his youth?

If holy Nature yet have laws,

Binding on man, of woman born,
In her own Court I'll plead his cause,
Arrest the doom and share the scorn.

Yes, let the scorn that haunts his course,
Turn on me like a trodden snake,
And hiss and sting me with remorse,
If I the fatherless forsake."

AKENSIDE.

"THE Pleasures of Imagination," a production that would do honour to the poetical genius of any age or nation, was published in 1744, when Akenside was in his twenty-third year. The poem was received with great applause, and advanced its author to poetical fame. It is said, that when it was shewn to Pope in manuscript, by Dodsley, to whom it had been offered for a greater sum than he was inclined to give, he advised the bookseller not to make a niggardly offer, for the author of it was no every-day writer.

It also has been surmised, that this poem, and some others, were written prior to his going to