These loud ancestral boasts of yours, "Good sir," I said, "you seem much stirred, The sacred compromises" "Now God confound that dastard word, Northward it has this sense alone, "While knaves are busy with their charts The soul that utters the North should be As chainless as her wind-roused sea, "'Tis true we drove the Indians out "O shame, to see such painted sticks 6 With Slavery's lash upon her back, To shout huzzas when, with a crack, "We, forefathers to such a rout? And said, with reverent gesture, No, Freedom, no! blood should not stain The hem of thy white vesture. "I feel the soul in me draw near The hill of prophesying; In this bleak wilderness I hear A John the Baptist crying; Far in the East I see upleap The first streaks of forewarning, "Child of our travail and our woe, I hear great footsteps through the shade And voices call like that which bade I looked, no form my eyes could find, I heard the cock just crowing, And through the window-cracks the wind Some Pilgrim stuff that hates all sham,- FROM "DREAM LOVE." How slight is a smile or a kind word to the giverhow much it may be to the receiver. So little do we know of the thoughts and feelings of those who move about us, so little does the inward and hidden world correspond with the outward and apparent, that we cannot calculate our influence, and when we think that trivial offices of kindness, which cost us nothing, may make flowers to spring up in another's heart, we should be slow to refuse them. This passing jest may have built the climax to an argument, which shall turn a struggling soul from out the path of duty-that word of encouragement afforded the prompting impulse which shall last forever. We cannot help the bias which others take from us. No man can live for himself, though he bury himself in the most eremitical caverns. We, as it were, are an illimitable and subtly entangled chain in the vast mechanism of Nature. The vibration of one link sounds along the whole line. Life is after all just what we choose to make it-and no man is so poor that he can not shape a whole world for himself even out of nothing. When I stand under the trees of another, and see the yellow morning gleaming through their tall shafts, and broken into a magnificent, illuminated oriel by the intervening leaves; when I look down the forest's sombre aisles, and hear the solemn groaning of the oaks, wrestling with the night blast, as if they struggled in prayer against an evil spirit-is it not my world that I behold, do I not own the silent stars that seem to fly through the clouds-and is not the large and undulating stretch of summer landscape mine, which my moving eye beholds? The power of enjoyment is the only true ownership that man can have in nature, and the landed proprietor may walk landless as MacGregor, though the world Yet the imaginative twinkling is but the incessant obscuration caused by may call him the wealthy owner of a thousand acres. I shone steadily-and the rest had withdrawn behind The poorest painter that 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 along its meted course forever, and that its lands, they are mine now-here from my window, all, as far as I can see, is mine,—I pay no taxes. Habit steals the sweetness out of our pleasures. The hard drudgery of a week's work makes the silence of the seventh day its blessing. To the city man of business, the few free hours in which he can smell the fresh air of the country, are by far pleasanter for the tedious routine of his common life. Sleep is sweetened by labor. The poor student whose hard earned dollar was pressed out of aching needs and privations, and given for the book he coveted, sweetens his life and soul by it-but the rich virtuoso has no dark vista of expectation and desire, to heighten the charm of the object he purchases. Never was play so good as in the quarter hour at recess, hemmed in between the walls of study. Too much tasting vitiates the palate. We artists live the best lives. We are like children, lured on by the scent of flowers in a green and pleasant meadow, which, though they are seldom found, make the seeking a delight. Art thus entices us gently on. The mechanical is so harmoniously connected with 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 things, dusty and scentless in themselves, seem vivified and transfigured. The old barn-yard, the gnarled oak and the stunted willow, and every sunset and sunrise, and all the clouds, and all human faces, become full of interest for us. They are no longer tame and prosaic, but filled with an evershifting beauty. Had we only the ideal, we should soon give up, but the constant contact of the actual, from which our problem is to shape out the ideal, gives a sincerity and truth to all our aspirations and labors. Our brushes and paints lie between the picture and our hands, and between the conception and its embodiment there is a great deal of actual work. Thus a pleasant vibration is constantly kept up between the spirit and the sense. Along the pencil runs the thought to bury itself in the canvass, as the lightning from heaven flashes along the iron rod to seek the earth. We are kept from being too visionary by a constant necessity of reducing all our feelings and emotions and ideas, to something actual and visible. Thus we can sit and realize our ideal world-and is not this the greatest joy? trite commonplace, instead of the genial glowing spirit that it sought. Enthusiasm is unfashionablethe ideal, a bore-high projects are foolish transcendentalism—and when the bewhipped heart, after it has run its gauntlet, turns and asks, what is true and good? "Our forms," says the world, and he consents for sake of peace. I have been looking out of my window into the moon-light. The fresh air as it blew in, fluttered the flame of my candle, which stood on the mantel, and threatened momentarily to extinguish it. Being in a superstitious mood, I determined not to move it, but to try my fate by it. If it were blown out, my love would also melt away. If it resisted the wind and burned on, my love was not a foolish fancy, but would live to shed light and happiness around me. I have watched with curiosity, for some time, the struggle between the wind and the candle. Now it seems as if the wind would get the better, for the flame hangs fluttering around the wick, and seems barely to keep its hold. And now again the wind flags, and the flame burns brightly and steadily. So it is with me. Love, the flame, now burning brightly, and now threatened with doubt and distrust. How universally this desire of snatching an intimation of the future out of the passing facts of the present, possesses the mind of man. Do we not, when anxious for an undetermined result, endeavor to strengthen our belief in what we hope, Yes by watching the chance ending of trivial facts then pending, and attaching an encouraging and signifi cant interpretation to one of the two issues. we cannot build up so strong a wall of confidence, that it needs no prop to sustain it. And we are willing 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, he 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 tamed 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. For dubious meanings learned polemics strove, And words on faith prevented works of love. CRABBE. THE POOR MAN'S DEATH BED. BY CAROLINE SOUTHEY. Tread softly-bow the head In reverent silence bow! Is passing now. Stranger! how great soe'er, Beneath that beggar's roof, This palace-gate. That pavement, damp and cold, A dying head. No mingling voices sound- A sob suppressed-agen O change, oh, wondrous change! Beyond the stars! O change! stupendous change! There lies the senseless clod; The soul from bondage breaks, The new immortal wakesWakes with his God. BY SONNET. GEORGE S. BURLEIGH. I thank ye, oh ye ever noiseless 'stars! That 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 victor'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. ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF DR. CHANNING. | Thou art not idle in thy higher sphere BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. I do not come to weep above thy pall, And mourn the dying-out of noble powers; Truth needs no champions: in the infinite deep Peace is more strong than war, and gentleness, Where force were vain, makes conquests o'er the wave; And love lives on and hath a power to bless, When they who loved are hidden in the grave. The sculptured marble brags of death-strewn fields, Clarkson will stand where Wellington hath stood. I watch the circle of the eternal years, One lengthened roll of blood, and wrong, and tears, The poor are crushed; the tyrants link their chain; Freedom doth forge her mail of adverse fates. Men slay the prophets; fagot, rack, and cross But Evil's triumphs are her endless loss, And sovereign Beauty wins the soul at last. No power can die that ever wrought for Truth; Therefore I cannot think thee wholly gone, The better part of thee is with us still; Thou livest in the life of all good things; To soar where hence thy hope could hardly fly. And often, from that other world, on this Thy spirit bends itself to loving tasks, For sure, in Heaven's wide chambers, there is room What wars, what martyrdoms, what crimes, may come, Thou knowest not, nor I; but God will lead Soon, like thine own, shall lose its cunning, too, This laurel-leaf I cast upon thy bier; Let worthier hands than these thy wreath entwine; Upon thy hearse I shed no useless tear, For me weep rather thou in calm divine! ABOU BEN ADHEM. BY LEIGH HUNT. Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase) Some gleams from great souls gone before may The Angel wrote and vanished. The next night shine, To shed on struggling hearts a clearer bliss, And clothe the Right with lustre more divine. He came again, with a great wakening light, THE WASTED FLOWERS. On the velvet bank of a rivulet sat a rosy child. Her lap was filled with flowers, and a garland of rose-buds was twined around her neck. Her face was as radiant as the sunshine that fell upon it; and her voice was as clear as that of the bird which warbled at her side. The little stream went singing on, and with every gush of its music the child lifted a flower in its dimpled hand, and with a merry laugh threw it upon its surface. In her glee she forgot that her treasures were growing less, and with the swift motion of childhood, she flung them upon the sparkling tide, until every bud and blossom had disappeared. Then seeing her loss, she sprang to her feet, and bursting into tears, called aloud to the stream-" Bring back my flowers." But the stream danced along, regardless of her tears; and as it bore the blooming burden away, her words came back in a taunting echo along its reedy margin. And, long after, amidst the wailing of the breeze and the fitful bursts of childish grief, was heard the fruitless cry," Bring back my flowers." Merry maiden! who art idly wasting the precious moments so bountifully bestowed on thee-see in the thoughtless impulsive child, an emblern of thy self. Each moment is a perfumed flower. Let its fragrance be dispensed in blessings on all around thee, and ascend as sweet incense to its beneficent GIVER. Else, when thou hast carelessly flung them from thee, and seest them receding on the swift waters of Time, thou wilt cry in tones more sorrowful than those of the weeping child- Bring back my flow ers." And the only answer will be an echo from the shadowy past-Bring back my flowers." The Lowell Offering.. I went up to try if I could pacify them; for by this time a number of little girls had joined the affray, and I was afraid they would be killed. So, addressing one party, I asked, What are you fighting those boys for? What have they done to you?' O, naething at a', maun; we just want to gie them a gude thrashin'-that's a’.’ My remonstrance was vain ; at it they went afresh; and after fighting till they were quite exhausted, one of the principal heroes stepped forth between the combatants, himself covered with blood and his clothes all torn to tatters, and addressed the opposing party thus:- Weel, I'll tell you what we'll do wi' ye—if ye'll let us alane, we'll let you alane. There was no more of it; the war was at an end, and the boys scampered away to their play. thought at the time, and have often thought since, that this trivial affray was the best epitome of war in general, that I had ever seen. Kings and ministers of state are just a set of grown-up children, exactly like the children I speak of, with only this material difference, that instead of fighting out for themselves the needless quarrels they have raised. they sit in safety and look on, hound out their innocent but servile subjects to battle, and then, after an immense waste of blood and treasure, are glad to make the boys' condition-if ye'll let us alane, That scene was a lesson of wisdom to me. I we'll let you alane.' EPITOME OF WAR. BY THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD." I'll look whar The history of every war is very like a scene I once saw in Nithsdale. Two boys from different schools met one fine day upon the ice. They eyed each other awhile in silence, with rather jealous and indignant looks, and with defiance on each brow. What are ye glowrin' at, Billy?' What's that to you, Donald? I've a mind, an' hinder me if you daur.' To this a hearty blow was the return; and then began such a battle! It being Saturday, all the boys of both schools were on the ice, and the fight instantly became general. At first they fought at a distance, with missile weapons, such as stones and THE FREE MIND. BY WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON. Written by him while despotically imprisoned in Baltimore, in 1831, on a charge for libel; he having published an article against a New England merchant by the name of Todd, who freighted a vessel with slaves for the New Orleans market. HIGH walls and huge the body may confine, And iron grates obstruct the prisoner's gaze, And massive bolts may baffle his design, And vigilant keepers watch his devious ways: Yet scorns the immorta! mind this base control! No chains can bind it, and no cell enclose: Swifter than light. it flies from pole, And in a flash from earth to heaven it goes! It leaps from mount to mount; from vale to vale It wanders, plucking honeyed fruits and flowers; It visits home, to hear the fire-side tale, Or, in sweet converse, pass the joyous hours. "Tis up before the sun, roaming afar, And, in its watches, wearies every star! |