A region of drought, where no river glides, But the barren earth, and the burning sky, And here, while the night-winds round me sigh, THE AWAKENING OF ENDYMION. Lone upon a mountain, the pine-trees wailing round him, Lone upon a mountain the Grecian youth is laid; Sleep, mystic sleep, for many a year has bound him, Yet his beauty, like a statue's, pale and fair, is undecayed, When will he awaken? When will he awaken? a loud voice hath been crying Night after night, and the cry has been in vain ; Winds, woods, and waves found echoes for replying, But the tones of the beloved ones were never heard again. When will he awaken? Asked the midnight's silver queen. Never mortal eye has looked upon his sleeping; Parents, kindred, comrades have mourned for him as dead; By day the gathered clouds have had him in their keeping, And at night the solemn shadows round his rest are shed. When will he awaken ? Long has been the cry of faithful Love's imploring; Long has Hope been watching with soft eyes fixed above; When will the Fates, the life of life restoring, When will he awaken? Beautiful the sleep that she has watched untiring, He has been dreaming of old heroic stories, When will he awaken? Asks the midnight's stately queen. Lo, the appointed midnight! the present hour is fated; It is Endymion's planet that rises on the air; How long, how tenderly his goddess love has waited; Waited with a love too mighty for despair! Soon he will awaken! Soft amid the pines is a sound as if of singing, Tones that seem the lute's from the breathing flowers depart; Not a wind that wanders o'er Mount Latmos but is bringing Music that is murmured from Nature's inmost heart. Soon he will awaken To his and midnight's queen! Lovely is the green earth,-she knows the hour is holy; Starry are the heavens, lit with eternal joy ; Light like their own is dawning sweet and slowly O'er the fair and sculptured forehead of that yet dreaming boy. Soon he will awaken! Red as the red rose towards the morning turning, Warms the youth's lip to the watcher's near his own; While the dark eyes open,bright, intense, and burning With a life more glorious than, ere they closed, was known. Yes, he has awakened What is this old history, but a lesson given, How true love still conquers by the deep strength of truth, How all the impulses, whose native home is heaven, Sanctify the visions of hope, and faith, and youth? "T is for such they waken! When every worldly thought is utterly forsaken, Comes the starry midnight, felt by life's gifted few; Then will the spirit from its earthly sleep awaken To a being more intense, more spiritual, and true. So doth the soul awaken, Like that youth to night's fair queen! THE INFANT'S DREAM. Oh! cradle me on thy knee, mamma, And sing me the holy strain That soothed me last, as you fondly prest And smile as you then did smile, mamma, For I dream'd a heavenly dream, mamma, I lived in a land where forms divine In kingdoms of glory eternally shine, And the world I'd give, if the world were mine, I fancied we roam'd in a wood, mamma, My heart grew sick with fear, mamma, And I loudly wept for thee; But a white-rob'd maiden appear'd in the air, My tears and fears she beguiled, mamma, We enter'd the door of the dark, dark tomb, And heavenly forms were there, mamma, They smiled when they saw me, but I was amaz'd, But soon came a shining throng, mamma, Then I mixed with the heavenly throng, mamma, The spirits which came from this world of distress; And there was the joy no tongue can express, For they know no sorrow there. Do you mind when sister Jane, mamma, Lay dead, a short time agone? Oh! you gaz'd on the sad, but lovely wreck, But it lov'd, and you still sobbed on! And seen what I saw, you ne'er had cried, Though they buried pretty Jane in the grave when she died, For shining with the blest, and adorn'd like a bride, Sweet sister Jane was there. Do you mind that silly old man, mamma, Who came very late to our door, And the night was dark, and the tempest loud, And think what a weight of wo, mamma, Made heavy each long drawn sigh, As the good man sat on papa's old chair, Ran down from his glazing eye. And think what a heavenly look, mamma, As he told how he went to the baron's strong hold, Well, he was in glory too, mamma, As happy as the blest can be ; He needed no alms in the mansions of light, Now sing, for I fain would sleep mamma, And dream as I dream'd before, For sound was my slumber, and sweet was my rest, While my spirit in the kingdom'of Life was a guest, And the heart that has throbb'd in the climes of the blest, Can love this world no more. "There is a comfort in the strength of love; "Twill make a thing endurable, which else Would overset the brain or break the beart." WORDSWORTH. VOICES OF THE TRUE HEARTED. No. 12. THE BEAUTIFUL. BY JOHN G. WHITTIER. "A beautiful form is better than a beautiful face; a beautiful behavior is better than a beautiful form; it gives a higher pleasure than statues or pictures; it is the finest of the fine arts."-Emerson's Essays, Second Series, iv. p. 162. A few days since, I was walking with a friend, who, unfortunately for himself, seldom meets with any thing in the world of realities worthy of com. parison with the ideal of his fancy, which, like the bird in the Arabian tale, glides perpetually before him, always near, yet never overtaken. I felt my arm suddenly pressed. "Did you see that lady, who has just passed us?" he inquired. I turned and threw back a glance. I see her," I replied; "a good figure, and quite a graceful step-what of her?" Why, she is almost beautiful,-in fact very nearly perfect," said my friend. "I have seen her several times before, and were it not for a chin slightly out of proportion, I should be obliged to confess that there is at least one handsome woman in the city." "And but one, I suppose," said I, laughingly. "That I am sure of," said he. "I have been to all the churches, from the Catholic to the Mormon, and on all the Corporations, and there is not a handsome woman here, although she whom we have just passed comes nearer the standard than any other." woods-scattered trees with moist sward and bright mosses at their roots-great clumps of green shadow, where limb entwists with limb, and the rustle of one leaf stirs a hundred others-stretching up steep hill-sides, flooding with green beauty the valleys, or arching over with leaves the sharp ravines,every tree and shrub unlike its neighbor in size and proportion-the old and storm-broken leaning on the young and vigorous-intricate and confused, without order or method! Who would exchange this for artificial French gardens, where every tree stands stiff and regular, clipped and trimmed into unvarying conformity, like so many grenadiers under reWho would fix for ever the loveliest cloud-work of view? Who wants eternal sunshine or shadow? an autumn sunset; or hang over him an everlasting moonlight? If the stream had no quiet eddying place, could we so admire its cascade over the rocks? Were there no clouds, could we so hail the sky shining through them in its still, calm purity? Who shall venture to ask our kind Mother Nature to remove from our sight any one of her forms or colors? Who shall decide which is beautiful, or otherwise, in itself considered? There are too many like my fastidious friend, who go through the world from Dan to Beersheeba, finding all barren”—who have always some fault or other to find with Nature and Providence, seeming to consider themselves especially ill-used because the one does not always coincide with their taste, nor the other with their narrow notions of personal convenience. In one of his early poems, Coleridge has beautifully expressed a truth, which is not the less important because it is not generally admitted. I have not in my mind at this moment the entire passage, but the idea is briefly this: that the mind gives to all things their coloring, their gloom or gladness; that the pleasure we derive from external Nature is primarily from ourselves : Just as if there were any standard of beauty,-a fixed, arbitrary model of form and feature, and color! The beauty which my friend seemed in search of, was that of proportion and coloring; mechanical exactness; a due combination of soft curves, and obtuse angles, of warm carnation, and marble purity! Such a man, for aught I can see, might love a graven image, like the girl of Florence, who pined into a shadow for the Apollo Belvidere, looking coldly on her with his stony eyes, from his niche in the Vatican. One thing is certain; he will never find his faultless piece of artistical perfection, by searching for it amidst flesh and blood realities. Nature does not, as far as I can perceive, work with square and compass, or The real difficulty of these life-long hunters after lay on her colors by the rules of royal artists, or the the Beautiful, exists in their own spirits. They dunces of the academies. She eschews regular out-set up certain models of perfection in their imaginalines. She does not shape her forms by a common model. Not one of Eve's numerous progeny in all respects resembles her who first culled the flowers of Eden. It is in the infinite variety and picturesque inequality of Nature, that her great charm and uncloying beauty consists. Look at her primitive "From the mind itself must issue forth A light, a glory, a fair luminous mist, Enveloping the earth." tions, and then go about the world in the vain expectation of finding them actually wrought out according to pattern; very unreasonably calculating that nature will suspend her everlasting laws for the purpose of creating faultless prodigies for their especial gratification. The authors of "Gaities and Gravities," give it | winter, seemed the diminutive, smoke-stained woas their opinion, that no object of sight is regard- men of Lapland, who wrapped him in their furs, ed by us as a simple, disconnected form, but that an and ministered to his necessities with kindness and instantaneous reflection as to its history, purpose, or gentle words of compassion. Lovely to the homeassociations, converts it into a concrete one-a pro-sick heart of Park seemed the dark maids of Sego, cess, they shrewdly remark, which no thinking being as they sung their low and simple song of welcome can prevent, and which can only be avoided by the beside his bed, and sought to comfort the white unmeaning and stolid stare of "a goose on the com- stranger, who had no mother to bring him milk, mon, or a cow on the green." The senses and the and no wife to grind him corn." O! talk as we faculties of the understanding are so blended with, may, of beauty as a thing to be chiselled from marand dependent upon, each other, that not one of them ble or wrought out on canvass,-speculate as we can exercise its office alone, and without the modi-may upon its colors and outlines, what is it but an fication of some extrinsic interference or suggestion. intellectual abstraction, after all? The heart feels Grateful or unpleasant associations cluster around a beauty of another kind;-looking through the outall which sense takes cognizance of: the beauty ward environment, it discovers a deeper and more which we discern in an external object is often but real loveliness. the reflection of our own minds. others. This was well understood by the old painters. In What is Beauty, after all? Ask the lover, who their pictures of Mary, the Virgin Mother, the beaukneels in homage to one who has no attractions for ty which melts and subdues the gazer, is that of the The cold on-looker wonders that he can call soul and the affections-uniting the awe and mystethat unclassic combination of features, and that awk-ry of that mother's miraculous allotment with the ward form, beautiful. Yet so it is. He sees, like Desdemona, her .. visage in her mind," or her affections. A light from within shines through the ex ternal uncomelinesss, softens, irradiates and glorifies That which to others seems common-place and unworthy of note, is to him, in the words of Spenser, it. "A sweet, attractive kind of grace, irrepressible love, the unutterable tenderness of young maternity-Heaven's crowning miracle with Nature's holiest and sweetest instinct. And their pale Magdalens, holy with the look of sins forgiven, how the divine beauty of their penitence sinks into the heart? Do we not feel that the only real deformity is sin, and that goodness evermore hallows and sanctifies its dwelling place? When the soul is at rest. when the passions and desires are all attuned to the divine harmony,— 44 Spirits moving musically human countenance? The lineaments of Gospel books." "Handsome is that handsome does-hold up your heads, girls!" was the language of Primrose in the play, when addressing her daughters. The worthy matron was right. Would that all my female readers, who are sorrowing foolishly because they are do we not read the placid significance thereof in the not in all respects like Dubufe's Eve, or that Statue "I have seen," said Charles of the Venus," which enchants the world," could Lamb, "faces upon which the dove of peace sat be persuaded to listen to her. What is good look- brooding." In that simple and beautiful record of ing, as Horace Smith remarks, but looking good? Be a holy life, the Journal of John Woolman, there is good, be womanly, be gentle-generous in your a passage of which I have been more than once resympathies, heedful of the well-being of all around minded in my intercourse with my fellow beings:you, and my word for it, you will not lack kind" Some glances of real beauty may be seen in their words of admiration. Loving and pleasant associations faces, who dwell in true meekness. There is a harwill gather about you. Never mind the ugly reflec-mony in the sound of that voice to which divine love tion which your glass may give you. That mirror gives utterance." has no heart. But quite another picture is yours Quite the ugliest face I ever saw was that of a on the retina of human sympathy.. There the beau. woman whom the world calls beautiful. Through ty of holiness, of purity, of that inward grace" which its "silver veil" the evil and ungentle passions lookpasseth show," rests over it, softening and mellowed out, hideous and hateful. On the other hand, ing its features, just as the full, calm moonlight melts those of a rough landscape into harmonious lovelinesss. Hold up your heads, girls!" I repeat after Primrose. Why should you not?-Every mother's daughter of you can be beautiful. You can envelope yourselves in an atmosphere of moral and intellectual beauty, through which your otherwise plain faces will look forth like those of angels. Beautiful to Ledyard, stiffening in the cold of a Northern there are faces which the multitude at the first glance pronounce homely, unattractive, and such as "nature fashions by the gross," which I always recognize with a warm heart-thrill; not for the world would I have one feature changed; they please me as they are; they are hallowed by kind memories; they are beautiful through their associations; nor are they any the less welcome, that with my admiration of them, "the stranger intermeddleth not.” A CHRISTMAS HYMN. BY ALFRED DOMMETT... It was the calm and silent night! Seven hundred years and fifty-three Had Rome been growing up to might, And now was queen of land and sea. No sound was heard of clashing wars, Peace brooded o'er the hushed 'domain: Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars Held undisturbed their ancient reign, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago. 'T was in the calm and silent night, The senator of haughty Rome. Impatient urged his chariot's flight, From lordly revel rolling home: Triumphal arches gleaming swell His breast with thoughts of boundless sway; What recked the Roman what befell A paltry province far away, Within that province far away, Fallen through a half-shut stable-door O, strange indifference! low and high Drowsed over common joys and cares; The earth was still,-but knew not why The world was listening,-unawares. How calm a moment may precede One that shall thrill the world for ever! To that still moment, none would heed, Man's doom was linked no more to sever, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago. It is the calm and solemn night! A thousand bells ring out, and throw Their joyous peals abroad, and smite The darkness,-charmed and holy now! The night that erst no shame had worn, To it a happy name is given; For in that stable lay, new-born, The peaceful prince of earth and heaven, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago! THE GOOD PART THAT SHALL NOT BE : TAKEN AWAY. BY HENRY W. LONG FELLOW. She dwells by Great Kenhawa's side, In valleys green and cool; And all her hopes and all her pride Her soul, like the transparent air She reads to them at eventide, And oft the blessed time foretells Their falling chains shall be. And following her beloved Lord, In decent poverty, She makes her life one sweet record For she was rich, and gave up all Of those who waited in her hall, Long since, beyond the Southern Sea Now earns her daily bread. It is their prayers, which never cease, That clothe her with such grace; Their blessing is the light of peace That shines upon her face. So should we live, that every hour That every thought, and every deed, Esteeming sorrow,-whose employ Far better than a barren joy. R. M. MILNES. |