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 Hope?  Who ever had a sounder taste, a more exact intellect than Dante? or who has ever tuned his harp more in favour of Freedom, than our own Whittier?

LETTER XII.

Kirkstall Abbey—­Mary the Maid of the Inn—­Newstead Abbey:  Residence of Lord Byron—­Parish Church of Hucknall—­Burial Place of Lord Byron—­Bristol:  “Cook’s Folly”—­Chepstow Castle and Abbey—­Tintern Abbey—­Redcliffe Church.

January 29.

In passing through Yorkshire, we could not resist the temptation it offered, to pay a visit to the extensive and interesting ruin of Kirkstall Abbey, which lies embosomed in a beautiful recess of Airedale, about three miles from Leeds.  A pleasant drive over a smooth road, brought us abruptly in sight of the Abbey.  The tranquil and pensive beauty of the desolate Monastery, as it reposes in the lap of pastoral luxuriance, and amidst the touching associations of seven centuries, is almost beyond description when viewed from where we first beheld it.  After arriving at its base, we stood for some moments under the mighty arches that lead into the great hall, gazing at its old grey walls frowning with age.  At the distance of a small field, the Aire is seen gliding past the foot of the lawn on which the ruin stands, after it has left those precincts, sparkling over a weir with a pleasing murmur.  We could fully enter into the feelings of the Poet when he says:—­

   “Beautiful fabric! even in decay
      And desolation, beauty still is thine;
    As the rich sunset of an autumn day,
      When gorgeous clouds in glorious hues combine
    To render homage to its slow decline,
      Is more majestic in its parting hour: 
    Even so thy mouldering, venerable shrine
      Possesses now a more subduing power,
    Than in thine earlier sway, with pomp and pride thy dower.”

The tale of “Mary, the Maid of the Inn,” is supposed, and not without foundation, to be connected with this Abbey.  “Hark to Rover,” the name of the house where the key is kept, was, a century ago, a retired inn or pot-house, and the haunt of many a desperate highwayman and poacher.  The anecdote is so well known, that it is scarcely necessary to relate it.  It, however, is briefly this:—­