For thine injured people's sake.
Wanderer, whither would'st thou roam?
To what region far away?
Bend thy steps to find a home,
In the twilight of thy day.
Where a tyrant never trod,
Where a slave was never known—
But where Nature worships God
In the wilderness alone."
Mr. Montgomery seems to have thrown his entire soul into his meditations on the wrongs of Switzerland. The poem from which we have just quoted, is unquestionably one of his best productions, and contains more of the fire of enthusiasm than all his other works. We feel a reverence almost amounting to superstition, for the poet who deals with nature. And who is more capable of understanding the human heart than the poet? Who has better known the human feelings than Shakspere; better painted than Milton, the grandeur of Virtue; better sighed than Byron over the subtle weaknesses of