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may call him the wealthy owner of a thousand acres. | shone steadily—and the rest had withdrawn bebind The poorest painter 1 hat ever passes his estate owns the veil of the moonlight into their fathomless blue more of it than he; the little school.girl who stops chambers. No! Science is not opposed to Poetry, to list his robin's song, or to dabble in his running it only opens a wider field. When I think that each brook, or to chase his butterfly, or to pluck his dan- of those sparkling points that I see above me sprinkled delion, owns more of all his land than he ever knew over the blue shell of the sky, is a distant world that there was to own. I do not covet your broad wood- spins alorg its meted course forever, and that its lands, they are mine now- here from my window, twinkling is but the incessant obscuration caused by all, as far as I can see, is mine, - I pay no taxes. the passage of invisible atoms across its disk; when
Habit steals the sweetness out of our pleasures. I know that some of them are double, and of comThe hard drudgery of a week's work makes the plementary color, though they seem to us as one, do silence of the seventh day its blessing. To the city I not find a lofty truth therein, which is full of man of business, the few free hours in which he can Poetry? We need not fear that science shall crowd smell the fresh air of the country, are by far poetry out of nature, by depriving it of mysterypleasanter for the tedious routine of his common for ever the web grows more complicate, and the life. Sleep is sweetened by labor. The poor stu- secret more unfathomable. Yet the imaginative dent whose hard earned dollar was pressed out of may well fear, for it is our stand point, that enables aching needs and privations, and given for the book us to find poems in the common life of every day. he coveted, sweetens his life and soul by it-but the This dry muscle-shell which lies beside me, will rich virtuoso has no dark vista of expectation and grow translucent and veined with a thousand curidesire, to heighten the charm of the object he pur- ous hues and prismatic lights, as soon as the salt chases. Never was play so good as in the quarter spray touches it. And so when the commonest fact honr at recess, hemmed in between the walls of of nature is wet from the fountain of inspiration, it study. Too much tasting vitiates the palate. We shows its thousand radiant, yet hidden beauties. artists live the best lives. We are like children, lured Custom and convention alone kill the poetry out of on by the scent of flowers in a green and pleasant nature. Laws of society, which are barren forms, meadow, which, though they are seldom found, make hang lead weights upon the young enthusiastif the seeking a delight. Art thus entices us gently on. Apollo. Every youthful heart, which in its first flush The mechanical is so harmoniously connected with of hope would clasp the world to its bosom, finds . the intellectual, that mind and body are both satis that it clasps a cold mailed body-stuffed with a fied. We smell a perfume after which all common trite commonplace, instead of the genial glowing things, dusty and scentless in themselves, seem spirit that it sought. Enthusiasm is unfashionablevivified and transfigured. The old barn-yard, the the ideal, a bore-high projects are foolish transcengnarled oak and the stunted willow, and every sun- dentalism-and when the bewhipped heart, after it set and sunrise, and all the clouds, and all human has run its gauntlet, turns and asks, what is true faces, become sull of interest for us. They are no and good ? "Our forms," says the world, and be longer tame and prosaic, but filled with an ever- consents for sake of peace. shisting beauty Had we only the ideal, we should
I have been looking out of my window soon give up, but the constant contact of the actual, into the moon-light. The fresh air as it blew in, from which our problem is to shape out the ideal, futtered the flame of my candle, which stood on the gives a sincerity and truth to all our aspirations and mantel, and threatened momentarily to extinguish it. labors. Our brushes and paints lie between the Being in a superstitious mood, I determined not to picture and our hands, and between the conception move it, but to try my fate by it. If it were and its embodiment there is a great deal of actual blown out, my love would also melt away. If it work. Thus a pleasant vibration is constantly kept resisted the wind and burned on, my love was not a up between the spirit and the sense. Along the foolish fancy, but would live to shed light and happencil runs the thought to bury itself in the can- piness around me. I have watched with curiosity, vass, as the lightning from heaven flashes along the for some time, the struggle between the wind and iron rod to seek the earth. We are kept from being the candle. Now it seems as if the wind would get too visionary by a constant necessity of reducing all the better, for the flame hangs fluttering around the our feelings and emotions and ideas, to something wick, and seems barely to keep its hold. And now actual and visible. Thus we can sit and realize our again the wind flags, and the flame burns brightly ideal world-and is not this the greatest joy ? and steadily. So it is with me. Love, the flame,
I wandered out into the moonlight to be alone. Inow burning brightly, and now threatened with sat down upon a rock beside the water. The waves doubt and distrust. How universally this desire of beat gently around its base, and the gleaming path snatching an intimation of the future out of the passof flickering light, paved with myriads of sparkles, ing facts of the present, possesses the mind of man. seemed to invite me to walk over the bosom of the Do we not, when anxious for an undetermined result, sea into the distant horizon. The sew large stars endeavor to strengthen our belief in what we hope,
THE POOR MAN'S DEATH BED.
BY CAROLINE SOUTHEY.
by watching the chance ending of trivial facts then pending, and attaching an encouraging and signifi. cant interpretation to one of the two issues. Yes we cannot build up so strong a wall of confidence, that it needs no prop to sustain it. And we are will. ing but too often that chance shall decide, when reason and judgment are wavering. And yet our destiny is almost the creation of our will—and often when a peculiar providence seems to have directed the result, and to have aided the individual, le in fact has created the circumstances and fashioned the event. When we are broken down in hope, and drowning, we grasp at straws. If a chance happen in our favor it gives us faith—and belief in our ability is the touchstone to success.
When we have taken counsel in moments of hesitation, from chance throws of dice, from fates cut in a book, and the result has proved fortunate as thereby indicated, is it not the faith which the chance decision has inspired, that decided the issue? When Robert Bruce lay on his pallet watching the spider, and saw him make six unsuccessful attempts to fasten its web to a beam above his head, and then determined, that if the insect succeeded in his seventh attempt, he also, who had six times failed in his efforts for the freedom of his country, would make one more trial; was it not the faith which the final success of the indefatigable insect inspired, that was the guaranty of victory, and under the guidance of which, defeat and failure were next to impossible? We can do, what we do not doubt that we can do. All great minds have a settled fearlessness and confidence, which looks like inspiration. Napoleon conquered and intimidated all Europe, by his sublime faith in himself. After marshalling all his resources and omitting no precaution which pointed even dimly to success, he had over and above this, a fiery faith, which spread like wildfire over his whole army, which conquered the most fearful odds, and which strode over and crushed all doubt to the earth. No army could withstand that desperate resolution, which never harbored a doubt of its own ability. Without this faith, he might have possessed his eagle insight, his quick instinct, his rapid combination, his subtle calculation and foresight, still never have grasped the hydra of anarchy, and lamed it to submission, even while its fangs were dripping with gore, nor have waded through the blood of Europe to an imperial throne. If we have no faith in ourselves, who is to have faith in us? No great man is astonished at his own success.
Tread softly-bow the head-
Is passing now.
Greater than thou.
This palace-gate. That pavement, damp and cold, No whispering courtiers tread; One silent woman stands, Listing with pale thin hands
A dying head. No mingling voices soundAn infant wail alone; A sob suppressed-agen That short, deep gasp--and then
The parting groan. O change, oh, wondrous change! Burst are the prison bars ! This moment there, so low, So agonized,--and now
Beyond the stars ! O change! stupendous change! There lies the senseless clod; The soul from bondage breaks, The new immortal wakes
Wakes with his God.
BY GEORGE S.
ye do move so silent, in your high Eternal marches through the voiceless sky. When Earth's loud clamor on the spirit jars, -The Captive's groans, the vicior's loud huzzas,
And the worn toilers' deepening hunger cry,
Then from your height ye gaze so placidly, That the low cares whose fretful breathing scars Life's holy deeps, shrink back abashed before
The love-sad meekness of your still rebuke, And the calmed soul forgets the earth storm's roar
In the deep trust of your majestic look, Till through the heart by warring passions torn, Some pulse of your serener life is born.
For dubious meanings learned polemics strove, And words on faith prevented works of love.
BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF DR. CHANNING | Thou art not idle : in thy higher sphere
Thy spirit bends itself to loving tasks,
And strength, to perfect what it dreamed of here, I do not come to weep above thy pall,
Is all the crown and glory that it asks.
For sure, in Heaven's wide chambers, there is room Earth's seeming woe, the seed of Heaven's flowers, For love and pity, and for helpful deeds;
Else were our summons thither but a doom Truth needs no champions : in the infinite deep To life more vain than this in clayey weeds.
Of everlasting Soul her strength abides, From Nature's heart her mighty pulses leap,
From off the starry mountain-peak of song, Through Nature's veins ber strength, undying,
Thy spirit shows me, in the coming time,
An earth unwithered by the foot of wrong, tides.
A race revering its own soul sublime. Peace is more strong than war, and gentleness,
What wars, what martyrdoms, what crimes, may Where force were vain, makes conquests o'er the
Thou knowest not, nor I; but God will lead And love lives on and hath a power to bless,
The prodigal soul from want and sorrow home, When they who loved are hidden in the grave.
And Eden ope her gates to Adam's seed. The sculptured marble brags of death-strewn fields, Farewell! good man, good angel now! this hand And Glory's epitaph is writ in blood;
Soon, like thine own, shall lose its cunning, too, But Alexander now to Plato yields,
Soon shall this soul, like thine, bewildered stand, Clarkson will stand where Wellington hath stood. Then leap to thread the free unfathomed blue : I watch the circle of the eternal years,
When that day comes, 0, may this hand grow coll, And read forever in the storied page
Busy, like thine, for Freedom and the Right; One lengthened roll of blood, and wrong, and tears,– 0, may this soul, like thine, be ever bold
One onward step of Truth from age to age. To face dark Slavery's encroaching blight !
Let worthier hands than these thy wreath entwine; Man's hope lies quenched;—and, lo! with steadfast Upon thy hearse I shed no useless tear,gain
For me weep rather thou in calm divine ! Freedom doth forge her mail of adverse fates.
Men slay the prophets; fagot, rack, and cross
Make up the groaning record of the past ; But Evil's triumphs are her endless loss,
And sovereign Beauty wins the soul at last.
ABOU BEN ADHEM.
BY LEIGH HUNT.
No power can die that ever wrought for Truth;
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, When he who called it forth is but a name. And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,Therefore I cannot think thee wholly gone,
An Angel writing in a book of gold. The better part of thee is with us still;
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, Thy soul its hampering clay aside hath thrown,
And to the presence in the room he said, And only freer wrestles with the Ill.
What writest thou ?" The vision raised its head, Thou livest in the life of all good things;
And, in a voice made all of sweet accord, What words thou spak’st for Freedom shall not die; Answered, « The names of those who love the Lord!"
" And is mine one ?" said Abou. Thou sleepest not, for now thy Love hath wings
Nay, not so," To soar where hence thy hope could hardly fly.
Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still, and said: “I pray thee, then, And often, from that other world, on this
Write me as one who loves his fellow-men." Some gleams from great souls gone before may The Angel wrote and vanished. The next night shine,
He came again, with a great wakening light, To shed on struggling hearts a clearer bliss, And showed the names whom love of God had blest
And clothe the Right with lustre more divine. And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
THE WASTED FLOWERS.
snow-balls; but at length, coming hand to hand, On the velvet bank of a rivulet sat a rosy child. they coped in a rage, and many bloody raps were
liberally given and received. Her lap was filled with flowers, and a garland of rose-buds was twined around her neck. Her face this time a number of little girls had joined the af
I went up to try if I could pacify them; for by was as radiant as the sunshine that fell upon
fray, and I was afraid they would be killed. So, adher voice was as clear as that of the bird whieh war
dressing one party, I asked, "What are you fighting bled at her side.
those boys for? What have they done to you ?' The little stream went singing on, and with every gush of its music the child lifted a flower in its dim- them a gude thrashin'—that's a'.'
-0, naething at a', maun; we just want to gie pled hand, and with a merry laugh threw it upon its
My remonstrance was vain ; at it they went surface. In her glee she forgot that her treasures afresh; and after fighting till they were quite exwere growing less, and with the swist motion of hausted, one of the principal heroes stepped forth childhood, she flung them upon the sparkling tide, between the combatants, himself covered with blood until every bud and blossom had disappeared. Then
and his clothes all torn to tatters, and addressed the seeing her loss, she sprang to her feet, and bursting
opposing party thus :- Weel, I'll tell you what into tears, called aloud to the stream-- Bring back
we'll do wi' ye—if ye'll let us alane, we'll let you my flowers.” But the stream danced along, regard-alane.' There was no more of it; the war less of her tears; and as it bore the blooming burden at an end, and the boys scampered away to their away, her words came back in a taunting echo along
play. its reedy margin. And, long after, amidst the wai).
That scene was a lesson of wisdom to me. I ing of the breeze and the fitful bursts of childish thought at the time, and have often thought since, grief, was heard the fruitless cry,—“Bring back that this trivial affray was the best epitome of war my flowers."
in general, that I had ever seen. Kings and minisMerry maiden ! who art idly wasting the precious ters of state are just a set of grown-up children, moments so bountifully bestowed on thee--see in
exactly like the children I speak of, with only this the thoughtless impulsive child, an emblem of thy material difference, that instead of fighting out for self. Each moment is a perfumed flower. Let its themselves the needless quarrels they have raised. fragrance be dispensed in blessings on all around they sit in safety and look on, hound out their innothee, and ascend as sweet incense to its beneficent cent but servile subjects to battle, and then, after an Giver.
immense waste of blood and treasure, are glad to Else, when thou hast carelessly flung them from make the boys' condition—- if ye'll let us alane, thee, and seest them receding on the swift waters of
we'll let you alane.' Time, thou wilt cry in tones more sorrowful than those of the weeping child -- Bring back my flowers.” And the only answer will be an echo from the shadowy past—« Bring back my flowers." The Lowell Offering.
THE FREE MIND.
BY WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON.
Written by him while despotically imprisoned in Balti
more, in 1831, on a charge for libel ; he having published EPITOME OF WAR.
an article against a New England merchant by the name
High walls and huge the body may confine, The history of every war is very like a scene I And iron grates obstruct the prisoner's gaze, once saw in Nithsdale. Two boys from different and massive bolts may baffle his design, schools met one fine day upon the ice.—They eyed And vigilant keepers watch his devious ways : each other awhile in silence, with rather jealous and Yet scorns the immortal mind this base control ! indignant looks, and with defiance on each brow.
No chains can bind it, and no cell enclose : • What are ye glowrin' at, Billy?'
Swifter than light. it flies from pole, • What's that to you, Donald ? I'll look whar
And in a flash from earth to heaven it goes ! I've a mind, an' hinder me if you daur.'
It leaps from mount to mount ; from vale to vale To this a hearty blow was the return; and then It wanders, plucking honeyed fruits and flowers; began such a battle! It being Saturday, all the boys It visits home, to hear the fire-side tale, of both schools were on the ice, and the fight in- Or, in sweet converse, pass the joyous hours. stantly became general. At first they fought at a | 'Tis up before the sun, roaming afar, distance, with missile weapons, such as stones and And, in its watches, wearies every star !
BY WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER.
There were sounds of mirth and revelry,
In that broad and huge ancestral hall,
He struck—and the stranger's guise fell off,
In that broad and high ancestral hall,
A voice arose as the lights grew dim,
TO A WATERFOWL.
BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. I have no fear-I have no fear
Whither, 'midst falling dew, Talk not of the vagrant, Death;
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, For he's but a grim old gentleman,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue And wars but with his breath."
Thy solitary way?
Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
Thy figure floats along.
Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, And the door new open wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean side.
There is a Power, whose care of the times that were, of old.
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,
The desert and illimitable air,-
Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere ; Fill higher-Fill higher-we drink to life,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.
And soon that toil shall end;
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend
Soon o'er thy sheltered nest. « He's a noble soul, that champion knight, And he wears a martial brow;
Thou’rt gone ; the abyss of heaven Oh, he'll pass the gates of Paradise,
Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet on my heart To the regions of bliss below!"
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.
He, who, from zone to zone, « Intruder, thou shall die !"
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
Will lead my steps aright.