flushing round a summer's sky," but are closely connected with the main purposes of the prophecy. It is Haggai's argument plead from the clouds.

The poet who extracts his own thought and imagery from ordinary scenery, is worthy of his name. But he is the truest maker, who forms a scenery and world of his own. This has Zechariah done. The wildest of the "Arabian Nights" contains no descriptions so unearthly as those in his prophecy. Those mountains, what and where are they? Those chariots, whence come, and whither go they? Those four horns, who has raised? Those red horses, what has dyed them? But strangest and most terrible is the "flying roll," "passing like night from land to land"-having "strange power of speech," stranger power of silence-a judgment, verily, that doth not linger, a damnation that doth not slumber. How powerfully does this represent law as a swift executioner, winged, and ever ready to follow the trail of crime, at once with accusation, sentence, and punishment!

From the height of contempt, Zechariah has reached for the then state of his country-he has but a few steps to rise to a panoramic prospect of the future, even of its most distant points and pinnacles. The long day of Christianity itself looks dim in the splendors of its evening; the second advent eclipses the first. The "day of the Lord" surmounts all intermediate objects; and the "last battle" brings his prophecy to a resplendent close.

One stray passage must be noticed, from its connection with the New Testament, and the tragedy of the Cross. It is that where the Lord of Hosts cries out, in his impatience and anger, "Awake, O sword, against my shepherd, and against the man that is my fellow smite the shepherd, and the sheep shall be scattered." How startling the haste of this exclamation! "Haste, for the victim has been bound to the altar. Haste, for the harps in heaven are silent till the day of atonement has passed away. Haste, for hell is dumb in the agony of its dark anticipations. Haste, for the eyes of the universe have been fixed upon the spot; all things are ready; yea, the sackcloth of the sun has been woven, and ere that darkness pass away, the sweat of an infinite agony must have been expended, and the blood of an infinite atonement must have been shed."

Did not the great victim bear this in view on the last

night of his life, when, looking up to the darkened heaven and the unsheathed sword, he sounded himself the signal for the blow, as he cried, "It is written, smite the shepherd, and the sheep shall be scattered?"

And

This wondrous cry was obeyed. The sword awoke against the man, God's fellow. It was "bathed in heaven." now no more is the cry raised, "Awake, O sword." Against the people of God it is sheathed for ever.

Yet shall this dread moment never be forgotten. For even as in the glad valleys of earth, when sunshine is resting on the landscape, the sound of thunder heard remote only enhances the sense of security, and deepens the feeling of repose, so, in the climes of heaven's-day, shall the memory of that hour so dark, and that cry so fearful, be to the souls of the ransomed a joy for ever.

MALACHI.

The word means 66 my angel or messenger." Hence some have contended that there was no such person as Malachi, but that Ezra was the author of the book. Origen even maintains that the author was an incarnate angel. The general opinion, however, is, that he was a real personage, who flourished about four hundred years before Christ.

It was meet that the ancient dispensation should close amid such cloudy uncertainties. It had been all along the "religion of the veil." There was a veil, verily, upon more than the face of Moses. Every thing from Sinai-its centre, down to the least bell or pomegranate-wore a veil. Over Malachi's face, form, and fortunes, it hangs dark and impenetrable. A masked actor, his tread and his voice are thunder. The last pages of the Old Testament seem to stir as in a furious wind, and the word curse, echoing down to the very roots of Calvary, closes the record.

On Malachi's prophecy, there is seen mirrored, in awful clearness, in fiery red, the coming of Christ, and of his forerunner, the Baptist. "I will send you Elijah, the prophet, before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the Lord." Last of a long and noble line-fated to have no follower for four hundred years-a certain melancholy bedims this prophet's strains. His language is bare and bald, compared with that of some of the others, although this seems to spring

The "seal of the pro

And thus,

rather from his subject than himself. phets," as the rabbis called him, is a black seal. although he abounds in predictions of Christ's near approach, you shut him with a feeling of sadness.

It is impossible to close this review of Israel's ancient bards without very peculiar sensations. We feel as one might who had been dwelling for a season among the higher Alps, as he turned to the plains again, torrents and avalanches still sounding in his ears, and a memory of the upper grandeurs dwindling to his eyes all lower objects. But have we brought down with us, and do we wish to confer on others, nothing but admiration? Nay, verily, these Alps of humanity waft down many important lessons. Showing how high man has attained in the past, they show the altitude of the man of the future world. To the poet, how exciting, at once, and humbling! He complains, at times, that he too soon and easily overtakes his models, and finds them cloud or clay after all; but here are models for ever above and beyond him, as are the stars. And yet he is permitted to look at, to be lightened by them, "to roll their raptures, and to catch their fire." Here are God's own pictures, glowing on the inaccessible walls. To the believer in their supernatural claims, how thrilling the proud reflection-this bark, as it carries me to heaven, has the flag of earthly genius floating above it. To the worshipper of genius, these books present the object no longer as an idol, but as a god. The admirer of man finds him here in his highest mood and station, speaking from the very door of the eternal shrine, with God tuning his voice and regulating his periods. Genius and religion are here seen wedded to each other, with unequal dowries, indeed, but with one heart. And there is thus conveyed, in parable, the prospect of their eternal union.

And can we close this old volume without an emotion of unutterable astonishment? Here, from the rudest rock, has distilled the sweetest honey of song. The simplest and most limited of languages has been the medium of the loftiest eloquence the oaten pipe of the Hebrew shepherd has produced a music, to which that of the Grecian organ and the Latin fife is discord. Here, too, centuries before the Augustan age, are conceptions of God which Cicero never grasped, nor Virgil ever sung. Race, climate, origina

The real

genius, will not altogether account for this. answer to the question, Why burned that bush so brightly amid the lonely wilderness, is, God, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, of Moses, Isaiah, and Daniel, dwelt therein, and the place is still lovely, yet dreadful, with his presence.

CHAPTER XII.

CIRCUMSTANCES MODIFYING NEW TESTAMENT POETRY.

THE main principle of the Old Testament may be comprised in the sentence, “Fear God, and keep his commandments: this is the whole duty of man. The main principle of the New is, "Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved." And yet, round these two simple sentences, what masses of beauty and illustration have been collected! To enforce them, what argument, what eloquence, what poetry, have been employed! Say, rather, that those truths, from their exceeding breadth, greatness, and magnetic power, have levied a tribute from multitudinous regions, and made every form o thought and composition subservient to their influence and end.

The New Testament, as well as the Old, is a poem-the Odyssey to that Iliad. And over the poetry of both, cir cumstances and events have exerted a modifying power. Yet it is remarkable, that in the New Testament, although events of a marvellous kind were of frequent occurrence, they are not used so frequently in a poetical way as in the Old. The highest poetry in the New Testament, is either didactic in its character, as the Sermon on the Mount, and Paul's praise of charity, or it is kindled up by visions of the future, and apparitions through the present darkness of the great white throne.

The resurrection, as connected with the doctrine of a general judgment, is the event which has most colored the poetry of the New Testament. The throne becomes a far more commanding object than even the mount that might be touched. Faint, in fact, is the reflection of this "Great Vision" upon the page of ancient prophecy: the trump is

heard, as if from a distance; the triumph of life over death is anticipated seldom, and with little rapture. But no sooner do we reach the threshold of the new dispensation, than we meet voices from the interior of the sanctuary, proclaiming a judgment; the sign of the Son of Man is advanced above, the graves around are seen with the tombstones loosened and the turf broken, and "I shall arise" hovering in golden characters over each narrow house; the central figure bruises death under his feet, and points with a cross to the distant horizon, where life and immortality are cleaving the clouds, and coming forth with beauty and healing on their wings. Such the prospect in our Christian sanctuary; and hence the supernatural grandeur of the strains which swell within it. Hence the rapture of the challenge, "O death, where is thy sting?" Hence the solemnity of the assertion, " Marvel not at this, for the hour is coming when they that are in the graves shall hear the voice of the Son of Man." Hence the fiery splendor of the description, "The Lord himself shall descend with a shout, with the voice of the archangel and the trump of God." Hence the harping symphonies and sevenfold hallelujahs of the Apocalypse, I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God." Here, indeed, is a source of inspiration, open only to the New Testament writers. The heathens knew not of the resurrection of the dead. But Paul and John have extracted a poetry from the darkness of the grave. In heathen belief, there was, indeed, a judgment succeeding the death of the individual; but no general assemblage, no public trial, no judgment-seat, “high and lifted up," no flaming universe, and, above all, no Godman swaying the fiery storm, and, with the hand that had been nailed to the cross, opening the books of universal and final decision.

"Meditations among the Tombs," what a pregnant title to what a feeble book! Ah! the tombs are vaster and more numerous than Hervey dreamed. There is the churchyard among the mountains, where the "rude forefathers of the hamlet lie." There is the crowded cemetery of the town, where silent thousands have laid themselves down to repose. There are the wastes and wildernesses of the world, where 66 armies whole have sunk," and where the dead have here their shroud of sand, and there their shroud of snow. There is the hollow of the earth, where Korah, Dathan, and Abi