'■■ ■ : ■ i/j, ' . :=::■-:.:/'■■.:.•:_".:. THE WHEAT-SHEAF O.K.. ■ % GLEANINGS FOR THE WAYSIDE AND FIRESIDE " I found no narrowness respecting sects and opinions : but believed that sincere, upright-hearted people, in every society, who truly love God, were accepted of Him." John Woolmax. f jiUablpjjia: WILLIS P. HAZARD, 178 CHESTNUT STREET. 1853. =£ Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1852, by WILLIS P. HAZARD, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, in and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. STEREOTYPED BY S. DOUGLAS WYETH AGT., NO 7 TEAR STREET, [NTED BY C. SHERMAN & CO. PREFACE The thought of this volume grew from the belief that it was needed; and its execution lies in the maxim, "Do the duty that is nearest thee." It was originally intended only as a Reading Book for schools ; but in ranging through extensive fields of Literature, so many golden grains were harvested, that the plan was varied ; and "The Wheat-Sheaf" was the result of abundant resources, which it has been a pleasant labour to arrange in accordance with the dictates of her own taste, and the experience of a more matured judgment. The selections have been made with particular reference to the inculcation of sound and truthful principles, and the spirit and aim of the book is to encourage a love for the good, the pure and the beautiful. E. N. Philadelphia, 10th Month, 1852. INTRODUCTION It was an observation of one who has been justly regarded as the wisest of men, that "of making many books there is no end ; and much study is a weariness of the flesh." Happily for the cause of human improvement, the facility with which books are made, has been wonderfully increased since the days of Solomon. Probably no single product of inventive genius has ever effected more in ac- celerating the march of the human mind, than the simple, yet won- derful art by which books are indefinitely multiplied. That the fer- vid eloquence poured forth in a British parliament, or an American congress, should be caught as it flows, and that before the orator had recovered from the fatigue which his exertions produced, his very words should be stamped in permanent characters, on thousands of sheets, and spread over the land in every direction, indicates a per- fection of art, which probably never presented to the imagination, grasping and comprehensive as it was, of Israel's most sagacious monarch. And we may reflect that as the facility of making books, has been incalculably increased, so the labour and study of reading have been greatly diminished, since Solomon enlightened the world with his three thousand proverbs, and his thousand and five songs. Inconceivable must have been the labour of spelling out the words couched in the continuous lines of the ancient chirography, when contrasted with the lucid arrangement of modern printing. But as natural evils are attended with some compensating advan- tages, so our modern improvements are not without their counter- poising evils. The facility with which books can be both made and read, has unquestionably contributed to the inundation of light and 1* V vi Introduction. unprofitable literature, for which the passing age is distinguished While we admit the force and correctness of the maxim above quoted the concluding observation is too much or too generally overlooked. Fear God and keep his commandments, for this is the whole duty of man. For God will bring every work into judgment, with every secret thing, whether it be good or whether it be evil. The practical inference deducible from this latter admonition is not in any degree inimical to the cultivation of those powers, intellectual or physical, which are divinely bestowed upon man; but it leads to such cultivation as to render those endowments conducive to the pur- poses for which they were conferred. The numerous improvements in science and art, bequeathed to us by the generations that liave passed, and are passing away, have not only afforded facilities in the acquisition of knowledge, by the production of books, to which our ancestors were strangers, but, by the use of machinery, have given such impetus to the power of production, as to afford much more ample leisure for intellectual culture. And may we not indulge the belief that the advancing light of civilization and Christianity, is slowly but certainly spreading the conviction that peace and brother- hood are the true policy of nations ; and that the safety and happi- ness, both of individuals and communities are most effectually se- cured by imbibing the spirit, and conforming to the maxims which the great Founder of Christianity, has offered to our acceptance? And we cannot fail to perceive that in proportion as the day advances, which was so eloquently described by the evangelical prophet, under the figure of the wolf drinking with the lamb, and the leopard lying down with the kid, the means and the opportunity of cultivating the intellect must be increased. The improvement and expansion of the understanding, if pursued with a due regard to religious considerations, so far from nourishing pride, have a powerful influence of an opposite character. The more deeply we search either into the wonders of creation, or into Introduction. vii the stores and capacities of the human mind, the more clearly shall we perceive how little we really know, and how large afield lies be- yond the reach of human vision. And the more the mind becomes inured to the pursuit of real and substantial knowledge, the less dan- ger there will be of being beguiled by the light and frothy produc- tions which unhappily compose so prominent a part of the floating literature of the day. History, science, art, and rational philosophy, contain stores be- yond the capacity of the strongest intellect or the most indefatigable industry to exhaust ; why then should any portion of our fleeting and irrevocable time, be squandered upon a species of literature which floats over the mind and leaves nothing behind it 1 If we estimate the character of the books we read, not merely by their direct, but also by their indirect results — not only by the evil which they produce, but by the good which they exclude — we shall probably find that many which are usually classed with the innocent, ought to be ranked with the pernicious. It must, however, be acknowledged, that no inconsiderable share of the matter which is offered to the perusal of the young, and even portions selected for the use of schools, can have but a slender claim to the poor negative credit of doing no harm, or of doing no other harm than the exclusion of something of a more substantial charac- ter. How much do we find, even in books designed for the use of schools, and consequently intended to mould the opinions of the rising generation, which represent the achievements of warriors, though necessarily effected under the influence of the direst passions of the human mind, as highly meritorious and ennobling. It is an observation which has no claim to novelty, that early im- pressions are among the most permanent, and it is education which forms the common mind. If, therefore, we expect the succeeding generation to be consistent christians, it is of incalculable importance that the education afforded to the youth, should be such as genuine viii Introduction. Christianity would commend, and that the books which are placed in their way, should, as far as possible, be expurgated of every sen- timent or doctrine inconsistent with the dispensation which was ushered in by the angelic anthem of "Glory to God in the highest, on earth peace and good will to men." With regard to the following work, it may be briefly stated that the compilers have laboured to select from a great variety of sources, such passages as are calculated to impress sound morality in the world; and without being devoted to the peculiar views of any reli- gious community, may support and impress the great truths of Chris- tianity in general ; and particularly that great fundamental doctrine which is the glory of the christian dispensation, and which lies at the foundation of all true religion, that a measure and manifestation of the Spirit of truth, is given to every man to profit withal. ENOCH LEWIS. Philadelphia, 10th Mo., 1852. CONTENTS. PAGE EDUCATION — CHAS. MACKAY, - - - - - 13 HARMONY OF NATURE, - - - - - - 10 THOUGHTS ON THE QUAKERS, - - - - - 18 CHARACTER OF THE SAVIOUR, - - - - - 19 GRIEF, --------20 TEMPERAMENTS — W. L. G. - - - - - 21 THREE DAYS OF CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS, - - - - 22 LUTHER, - - - - - - - 25 the colouring of haptiness edith may, - - - 27 desirable fame enoch lewis, - - - - 29 the tempest fields, - - - - - -31 who is thy neighbour ? - - - - 32 where is the enemy ? l. m. child, - - - - 34 clarkson at wadesmill lucy barton, - - - 35 the worth of hours milnes, - - - - - 36 in memoriam a. tennyson, ----- 37 foot prints of the creator hugh miller, - - - 39 the disenthralled j. g. whittier, - 43 to joseph sturge, on the death of his sister j. g. whittier, - 44 the bald eagle wilson, ----- 47 jerusalem brainard, ------ 49 pardbhaw craig l. m. ho ag, - 52 lines on temperance, ------ 53 christianity, ------- 55 when will the millenium come ? upham, - - -55 lines by de wette, ------ 57 to the meek aubrey de vere, ----- 59 the chief good maria jewsbury, - - - - 60 logan's lament — charles west Thomson, - - - - 62 death of copernicus, ------ 65 the city bryant, 67 on drawing, ------- 68 elisabeth fry, ------- 69 BRIDGES, - - - - - - - 71 B ix x Contents. PRESERVATION OF PEACE SUMNER, - - - 73 PASSING UNDER THE ROD S. B. DANA, .... 75 JOHN HOWARD DIXON, - - - - - 77 napoleon's telegraph on MONT-MARTRE, ... 87 MELANCTHON, .------ 90 THE CHRISTIAN WARFARE, ..... 93 AUTUMN N. P. WILLIS, ------ 95 BALLAD OF CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK J. G. WHITTIER, - - 97 LITTLE PILGRIM, - - - - - - - 1 0-1 MADAM GUION UPHAM, - - - - - 1 14 MUSIC, - - - - - - - -118 POMPEII — DR. BEATTIE, - 120 FENELON UPHAM, - - - - - - 122 POOR CHRISTIAN'S DEATH BED C. L. SOUTHEY, - 127 THE PEOPLE CALLED QUAKERS — BANCROFT, .... 129 THE USE OF FLOWERS MARY HO WITT, - - - - 131 FAITHFULNESS — E. L. JR. - - - • - - 133 nichol's PLANETARY SYSTEMS, ----- 137 NIAGARA FROM THE SPANISH, ..... 140 THE OBJECT OF LIFE J. TODD, ----- 143 THE DUMB CHILD, - - - - - - -151 GENIUS AND WRITINGS OF PASCAL, - - - - 154 MOTTO AND CREST, - - - - - - -155 WHITTIER'S ESTIMATE OF BYRON, - - - - 156 THE SONG OF THE SHIRT HOOD, - - - - - 158 HUMPHREY DAVY, - - - - - - 1G1 MY TIMES ARE IN THY HAND, - - - - - 163 THOUGHT, - - - - - - . 165 SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT LONGFELLOW, - - - 166 STANZAS, - - - - - - - 167 WILLIAM PENN — E.N. - - - - - -168 STANZAS, --...-. 169 mantell's museum horace smith, - - - - 171 Coleridge's hymn in the valley of chamouni, - - 174 daniel wheeler j. g. whittier, .... 177 nineveh a. h. layard, - - - - - 182 cowper's grave e. b. barrett, ... - - 188 an angel visit, - - - - - - 192 reginald heber amelia opie, ..... 196 thanatopsis bryant, ------ 198 vision of immortality bryant, - - - - 201 Contents. xi THE NEPENTHES, OR PITCHER PLANT — C. L. SOUTHEY, - - 204 INTELLECTUAL PRIDE — LIEUT. LYNCH, ... - 205 INWARD INFLUENCE OF OUTWARD BEAUTY, - 206 GEORGE FOX AND HIS COADJUTORS THOMAS EVANS, - - 207 THE PHILOSOPHER'S SCALES JANE TAYLOR, - - 213 OF THE OPEN SKY RUSKIN, - - - - - 217 THE CHRISTIAN TOURISTS J. G. WHITTIER, - - - - 221 READING NOT KNOWLEDGE, - 223 THE QUAKER OF THE OLDEN TIME — J. G. W. ... 224 OBSERVATIONS ON THE CHRISTIAN MINISTRY J. J. GURNEY, - 225 THE WISH OF TO-DAY J. G. W., ..... 229 HENRY MARTYN SARGENT, - - - - - 231 A PSALM OF LIFE LONGFELLOW, ----- 232 NATURE IN AMERICA, ------ 234 THE LEAF H. F. GOULD, .-__.- 236 JAMES NAYLER J. G. W., ..... 239 THE NEGLECTED CALL — HANNAH LLOYD, .... 251 GEOLOGY SIR DAVID BREWSTER, ----- 253 CHARITY — L. H. S., - - 255 THE TWO URNS, - - - - - - 257 THE STRANGE PREACHER, - ... - 258 THE PRESENT, ------- 260 THE SYNAGOGUE WM. CROSWELL, - - - - 261 TO NIAGARA BUCKINGHAM, - ... - 262 MARY DYER BERNARD BARTON, ..... 264 CHRISTIAN REDEMPTION — LINDLEY MURRAY, - - - 265 THE DEATH OF THOMAS CLARKSON E. L., JR., ... 266 PRINCIPLE OF LIFE — NICHOL, .... - 269 ABSALOM N. P. WILLIS, ------ 272 TINTERN ABBEY — WORDSWORTH, - - - - 276 THE MOTHER'S DREAM — -H. F. GOULD, - - - 281 THOMAS ELLWOOD J. G. W., ----- 284 THE FOREST MOSS — EDWARD BROWN, - - ... 300 MY SOUL AND I T. G. W., - - - - - 301 THE WASTED FOUNTAINS A. C. LYNCH, ... - 3QS A MARRIAGE LETTER, - - - - - - 310 THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR PRENTICE, - - - 312 KINGDOM COME OTWAY CURRY, - - - - 315 SCRIPTURE SONNET ANN W. MALIN, - - - - 316 ADIEU TO YOUTH THOMAS HOPE, - - - - 317 THE ANGEL OF PATIENCE — J. G.W., .... 320 xii Contents. of water ruskin, - - - - - - 321 a christian slave — j. g. w., - 324 death of the sagamore — h. f. gould, ... 327 war — upham, _...--. 330 the angels of buena vista j. g. w., - - - - 333 forgiveness, .... - - 337 the arsenal at springfield— longfellow, - • • 338 war on christian principles, - 340 little mary, ------- 342 stanzas e. p. k., - - - - - - - 344 the influence of habit — phillips, - 345 the bible against slavery — t. d. weld, - 348 what has the year left undone ? ware, - - - 349 autumn sunset elizabeth h. whittier, - - - 350 a fly in the telescope, - - - - - 351 christian nurture bushnell, ----- 353 last words of schiller, ----- 355 john woolman westminster review, - 357 cardiphonia hannah lloyd, - - - - - 361 acquisition of knowledge —maria fox, - 363 mental cultivation — maria fox, - 364 milton's prayer of patience — e. l., jr., - 365 a quaker meeting! chas. lamb, - 367 the lily of the valley, ------ 370 the rising eagle — h. f. gould, - * " - 371 mammoth cave — e. w., _...-- 373 the first snow fall — j. r. lowell, - - - • - 374 SHELLS, -------. 376 capital punishment — j. g. w., - 381 elwood's description of geo. fox, - 3s4 mont blanc l. e. l., - - - - - - 386 war washington irving, ----- 3$8 dymond's- grave, ------ 389 peace convention at brussels — j. g. w., - - - 390 god derzhavin, --.-•- 393 barclay of ury — j. g. w., - 397 labour and wait, -----_ 402 the men of old — j. g. w., - 404 LOVING AND FAITHFUL — E. L., JR., - 406 THE BRIDEGROOM TO HIS BRIDE, - 403 THE PROSELYTES J. G. W., - - . _ . 4}0 THE WHEAT-SHEAF, BY CHARLES MACKAY. I have a wondrous house to build, A dwelling humble, yet divine, A lowly cottage to be filled With all the jewels of the mine. How shall I build it strong and fair ? This noble house, this lodging rare ? So small and modest, yet so great ! How shall I fill its chambers bare With use, with ornament, with state ? My God hath given the stone and clay : J Tis I must fashion them aright — 'Tis I must mould them day by day, And make my labour my delight. This cot, this palace, this fair home, This pleasure house, this holy dome, Must be in all proportions fi't, That heavenly messengers may come To lodge with him who tenants it. 14 Education. No fairy bower this house must be, To totter at each gale that starts, But of substantial masonry, Symmetrical in all its parts — Fit in its strength to stand sublime For seventy years of mortal time, Defiant of the storm and rain, And well attemper'd to the clime, In every cranny, nook and pane. I'll build it so, that if the blast Around it whistle loud and long, The tempest when its rage hath passed, Shall leave its rafters doubly strong. I'll build it so that travellers by Shall view it with admiring eye, For its commodiousness and grace : Firm on the ground, straight to the sky, A meek but goodly dwelling place. Thus noble in its outward form, Within I'll build it clear and white, — Not cheerless cold, but happy warm, And ever open to the light : No tortuous passage or stair, No chamber foul, or dungeon lair, No gloomy attic shall there be, But wide apartments ordered fair, And redolent of purity. With three compartments furnished well, The house shall be a home complete, Wherein, should circumstance rebel, The humble tenant may retreat. Education. 15 The first, a room wherein to deal With men for human nature's weal, A room where he may work or play, And all his social life reveal In its pure texture day by day. The second, for his wisdom sought, Where, with his chosen book or friend, He may employ his active thought To virtuous and exalted end. A chamber lofty and serene, With a door-window to the green Smooth shaven sward, and arching bowers, Where lore, or talk, or song between, May gild his intellectual hours. The third, an oratory dim, But beautiful, where he may raise, Unheard of men, his daily hymn Of Love, of Gratitude, of Praise : Where he may revel in the light Of things unseen and infinite, And learn how little he may be, And yet how awful in thy sight, Ineffable Eternity ! Such is the house that I must build — This is the cottage, this the home — This is the palace, treasure-filled, For an Immortal's earthly home. Oh, noble work of toil and care ! Oh, task most difficult and rare ! Oh, simple, but most arduous plan ! To raise a dwelling-place so fair, The sanctuary of a man ! t Barmont] of Motor?. There is joy among the ice-bergs, when ends the polar night, And their mighty crystals flash, in the newly wakened light : There is joy in shouting Egypt, when through her valleys wide, Pours the fountain of her harvests, its renovated tide. Through each zone that belts the earth, Nature sings a gladsome song, In numbers sweetly simple, or magnificently strong. By the well spring in the desert, beneath the spreading Palm, Her voice rings sweet and holy, through an atmosphere of balm : Where Niagara the burthen of his congregated springs, Hurls down the yawning chasm, how gloriously she sings ! Afar in leafy forests, where the axe hath never swung, Where the Indian roams sole monarch and the panther rears her young ; In meadows of the wilderness, where proudly in the air, The Elk his antlers tosseth, and the Bison makes his lair ; From heights where the strong Eagle, sways his pinions on the cloud, And valleys where the vine's bright leaves the blushing clusters shroud : From the teeming lap of ocean where rest the sunny isles, And white-winged barques are laden with their rich and sunny spoils ; With trumpet-tongued sublimity, or low and silver voice, Nature swells the mighty anthem, whose burthen is — Rejoice ! Oh life sustaining air, bounding ocean, verdant earth, The universe is ringing with the music of your mirth ! Yet wide as is your empire, and vast as is your plan, Ye are but vassal servitors, that minister to man ! 'Tis true in fierce rebellion, there are moments when ye rise, And crush the weak defences, he hath labored to devise : The Harmony or Nature. 17 Yet past your burst of anger, again you own his sway, Ye come to him with tribute, ye hear him and obey ! He heweth down and rendeth the patriarchs of the wood, He fashions them to Palaces that bear him o'er the flood. Next the boundless realms of air must be subject to his pride, And lo ! the startled Eagle beholds him at his side. On earth a mighty agent impels him with a speed, Which mocks the fleetest gallop of the desert nurtured steed : Intelligence his sceptre, his weapon and his shield, Who shall limit the results that his enterprise may yield. How glorious is his heritage ! how loud should he His praise, When even things inanimate, a song of gladness raise ! The bounteous gifts of Providence forever round him shower, For him the wild birds carol, and for him the bursting flower, From the jeweled arch of heaven, to the daisy chequered sod, Is one continued banquet for the masterpiece of God ! And the Frost too, has a melodious ministry ! You will hear its crystals shoot in the dead of a clear night, as if the moonbeams were splintering like arrows on the ground : and you listen to it the more earnestly, that it is the going on of one of the most cunning and beautiful of nature's deep myste- ries. I know nothing so wonderful as the shooting of a crystal! God has hidden its principle from the inquisitive eye of the philosopher, and we must be content to gaze on its exquisite beauty, and listen in mute wonder, to the noise of its invisible workmanship. It is too fine a knowledge for us. We shall comprehend it when we know how " the morning stars sang together." N. P. Willis. 2* nugtjfs nil the (Makers. The following sentiment was published by a clergyman of the Church of England. " For my part, I conscientiously believe, that there is more of the spirit of true religion in the idolatry that kneels in mistaken, though heartfelt gratitude, to a sculptured image, than in the deliberate mockery which sends up solemn sounds from thoughtless tongues. This is a rock of temptation which the Quakers have avoided, in dispensing with the inspiration of song : they at least, shun its abuses : and if they really succeed in filling their hour with intense religious meditation and spiritual communion : if from their still retreat, the waves of this boisterous world are excluded, and send hither no disturb- ing — if no calculations of interest, and no sanguine plans are there prosecuted ; and no hopes, nor fears, nor regrets, nor triumphs, nor recollections ; nor any other flowers that grow this side the grave, are gathered and pressed to the bosom, on the margin of these quiet waters ; if in short, the very silence of the scene, is not too much for the feeble heart of man, which if deprived of the stay of external things, will either fall back on itself, or else will rove to the world's end, to expend its restless activity in a field of chaotic imaginings : if I say, the Quakers are so happy as to escape these perils, together with the seductions to vanity which music and preaching present, then must their worship be the purest of all worships, and their absence of forms, be the perfection of all form." The good old motto was never more important than in the present day of polemical strife and sectarian prejudice: In essentials, unity : in non essentials, Liberty : in all things, Charity. J. J. G. 18 % Cfjararfer of fy* iaotour. In the character of our Saviour, the mind and the heart rest satisfied ; the more it is studied the more holy and beautiful it be- comes. Does the mind ask for submission ? seek it in his child- hood, while he was subject to his parents : for youthful dignity ? see him standing in the midst of the temple, sublime in youth and power, reasoning with the doctors and lawyers, with a wisdom which astonished even those who questioned him on subjects which had been, to them the study of a life-time. Does it ask for humility and forbearance ? find him washing his disciples' feet, and sitting at the same board with publicans and sinners : for true and gentle charity ', listen to his voice when he says to the sinful woman " woman where are thine accusers ? Go in peace and sin no more." Does it ask a heart full of gentle and domestic sympa- thy ? follow him to the grave of Lazarus, or to the bier of the wid- ow's son : for benevolence ? let the mind dwell for a moment on the cleansed leper, on the blind restored to sight, and on that heart stirring scene where he stood in the midst of the multitude, while the sick man was let down through the roof that he might heal him : for firmness ? go to the wilderness where the Son of God fasted and was sorely tempted forty days and forty nights : for energy ? witness it in the overthrowing of the money-tables, while those who had desecrated the temple, were cast forth from the place they had polluted : for wisdom ? read it in every act of his life, and in every line of his sermon on the mount : for prudence 1 see it in his answer given to the chief priests, when they brought him the tribute money : for patience, forgiveness, and all the gentle attributes that form the Christian character in its perfec- tion, follow him to the Garden : witness his prayer and his agony of spirit : dwell on his patient and gentle speech, when he return- ed from that scene of pain, and found even his disciples asleep : reflect on his meekness and forbearance, when the traitor's lip 19 20 Grief. was on his cheek : on the hand so readily extended to heal the ear of the maimed soldier. Go -with him to the place of trial, and to that last dreadful scene which caused the grave to give up its dead, and the solid earth to tremble beneath the footsteps of his persecutors. Dwell upon his life, and upon every sepa- rate act of his life, and the soul must become imbued with a sense of its health, beauty and holiness. <§wf. Count each affliction, whether light or grave, God's messenger sent down to thee. Do thou With courtesy receive him : rise and bow : And ere his shadow pass thy threshold, crave Permission first his heavenly feet to lave. Then lay before him all thou hast. Allow No cloud of passion to usurp thy brow, Or mar thy hospitality : no wave Of mortal tumult to obliterate The soul's marmoreal calmness. Grief should be Like joy, majestic, equable, sedate. Confirming, cleansing, humbling, making free : Strong to consume small troubles : to commend Great thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts lasting to the end. Aubrey De Yere. Good qualities are the substantial riches of the mind : but 'tis good breeding sets them off. Locke. toperamrate. A false standard of action determines nothing but the blind- ness or the bigotry of him who erects it. It is not meritorious, it is not blameworthy, to have a sanguine or nervous, a bilious or lymphatic temperament. It was a fortunate circumstance that Luther was not Melancthon, and that Melancthon was not Luther. The reformation could not have spared either of them without loss. They were of one spirit ; but the manifestation of that spirit was widely different in those distinguished reformers. Peter and John, Paul and Apollos, had their dis- tinctive characteristics ; yet they all heartily espoused the cause of their Lord and Master, and continued faithful unto death. The state of the heart is not infallibly determined by any degree of physical activity or quiescence. Let not him who, in whatever he undertakes, is as impetuous as a mountain torrent, reprove him who is habitually like a gentle stream ; and let not the constitutionally mild, censure the constitu- tionally severe. Gentleness of spirit is not incompatible with intense energy of action. — The Lamb of God is also the Lion of the tribe of Judah. Abstinence from denunciation is no evidence of sweetness of temper ; a soft and persuasive disposi- tion is not necessarily evincive of a slight abhorrence of iniquity, or a feeble regard for the cause of righteousness. Perfect love does not consist of similarity of tastes or identity of temperament. One star differs from another star in glory ; nevertheless, they are lights in the heavens, and utter the same language : " The hand that made us is divine." It is not for the sun to reprimand the moon for her coldness, — to say to her — " Why do you not flame as I do ? you are so frigid, that even icebergs are impervious to your rays, and all vegetation would perish under your influence. See how I 21 22 Three Days op Christopher Columbus. vivify all nature ! Stand by — I am hotter, and therefore better than you!" It is not for the moon to retort, and say — "You are of a fiery temperament, you are an incendiary. The fierce- ness of your rays is overpowering. The ardour of your disposi- tion is incompatible with sobriety of judgment. You are always in a state of excitement — always burning, burning, burn- ing ! Why do you not imitate me? I am immaculate — perfect — none too hot, none too cold — always mild, calm, reflective — precisely what every sun ought to be !" It is well for the universe that those twain are not one. Blot out the sun, and chaos would come again. Deprived of the light of the moon, the earth would mourn. The moon is not for the day — the sun is not for the night, but they will be indispensable as long as day and night, seed time and harvest shall last. W. L. Gt. (tyfm latjs nf Cjmstopljer CotamfaiB. " Back to Europe again ; let our sails be unfurled !" " Three days," said Columbus " and I give you a world !" And he pointed a finger and looked through the Vast, As if he beheld the bright region at last : He sails — and the dawn, the first day, quickly leads : He sails — and the golden horizon recedes : He sails — till the sun, downward sinking from view, Hides the sea and the sky with their limitless blue- On, onward he sails, while in vain o'er the lea, Down plunges the lead through the fathomless sea ! ©(D^tSMJ© Three Days op Christopher Columbus. 23 The pilot in silence leans mournfully o'er The rudder, which creaks mid the dark billows' roar : He hears the hoarse moan of the waves rushing past, And the funeral wail of the wind-stricken mast : And the stars of far Europe have fled from the skies, And the " Cross of the South" meets his terrified eyes. But at length the slow dawn softly streaking the night, Illumes the vast dome with its beautiful light. " Columbus !" 'tis day, and the darkness hath past ! " Day !" " and what dost thou see ?" " I see nought but the Vast 1 " What matter ? he 's calm ! but ah stranger, if you Had your hand on his heart, with such glory in view 5 Had you felt the wild throb of despair and delight That depressed and expanded his bosom that night ; The quick alternations, as morning drew near, The chill and the fever, the rapture and fear, You would feel that such moments exhausted the rage And the multiplied malice and pains of an age — You would say these three days half a lifetime hath slain, And his fame is too dear at the price of such pain ! Oh who can describe what the crushed heart can bear — The delirium of hope, and the lonely despair ! Of a Great Man unknown, whom his age doth despise As a fool, mid the vain vulgar crowd of the wise ! Such wert thou Galileo ! Far better to die Than thus, by a terrible effort, to lie ! When thou gave, by an agony deep and intense, That lie to thy labours, thy reason, thy sense, To the Sun to the Earth to that Earth we repeat, Which thou trembled to feel moving under thy feet ! 24 Three Days of Christopher Columbus. The second day 's past — and Columbus % — he sleeps While Mutiny round him its dark vigil keeps : Shall he perish ? " Death !" " Death !" is the mutinous cry, " He must triumph to-morrow, or perjured, must die !" The ingrates ! Shall his tomb on to-morrow be made Of that sea which his daring a highway had made ? Shall that sea on to-morrow with pitiless waves, Fling his corse on that shore, which his longing eye craves ? The corse of an unknown adventurer then One day later, Columbus — the greatest of men ! He dreams, how a veil drooping over the main, Is rent, at the distant horizon in twain : And how, from beneath, on his rapturous sight, Burst at length the New World from the darkness of night ! Oh how fresh, oh how fair, the new virgin earth seems ! With gold the fruits glisten, and sparkle the streams. Grreen gleams on the mountains, and gladdens the isles, And the seas and the rivers are dimpled with smiles ! "Joy! joy!" cries Columbus, "this region is mine!" Ah ! not even its name, hapless dreamer, is thine ! At length o'er Columbus slow consciousness breaks — Land ! — land ! cry the sailors — land — land — he awakes ; He runs — yes beholds it ! it blesseth his sight, — The land ! oh sweet spectacle ! transport ! delight ' Oh generous sobs which he cannot restrain ! What will Ferdinand say ? and the Future ? and Spain ? He will lay this fair land at the foot of the throne — The king will repay all the ills he has known. In exchange for a world, what are honours and gains ? Or a crown ? but how is he rewarded ? with chains ! %4n. Hitherto the too common idea of the great reformer's character has been, that it was a compound of ruggedness and violence. These traits have been so prominent, that the finer lines of his character have been completely shaded from sight. Another reason of our misconception has been, that we too often honour mere daintiness of mind with the names of delicacy, sensibility, &c. Perhaps, however, the finest, richest, and most generous species of character, is that which presents to the dainty, the most repulsive surface. Within the rough rind the feelings are preserved unsophisticated, robust and healthy. The " noli me tangeri" outside, keeps off the insidious swarm of artificial sentimentalists, which taint and adulterate, and finally expel all natural emotions from within us. The idea of a perfect man has always been prefigured to our minds by the lion coming out of the lamb, and the lamb coming out of the lion. Of this description of character was Luther. Nothing could exceed his submis- siveness and humility, when a choice was left him whether to be humble or daring ; but when duty spoke, no other considera- tion was for a moment attended to : and he certainly did then shake the forest with his magnificent ire. If we behold him one moment, to use his own quotation from Scripture — " pouring contempt upon princes," we see him the next, in his familiar correspondence, a poor, humble, afflicted man, not puffed up with pride at the great things he had accomplished, but rather, struck down with a sense of his own unworthiness. As to his violence, it was part of his mission to be violent : and those who lay it to his charge as blame, seem to us, not to accuse him, but to accuse Providence. Not to have been violent, he would not have been in earnest : and here it must be observed that his violence was only verbal. It was merely the rousing voice, to wake Europe from the lethargy of ages. In his opinions and 26 Luther. views, he was the most moderate of reformers. In his coarse- ness however, his low origin certainly speaks' out ; yet. there is something sublime in the peasant (the miner's son,) dragging popes and kings into his wrestling ring, and handling them with as little ceremony as he would a hob-nailed clown in a market place. But let us follow him into private life. Here it is that we shall best learn to appreciate him. We will not dwell upon his constant contentment in poverty, and his contempt for riches, because this is characteristic of nearly all the great men, who are really worth more than gold can procure them : but his long, unbroken friendship with Melancthon — a character so unlike his own, and in some respects so superior, as Luther himself was the first to acknowledge, struck us as proof that he possessed much sweetness and gentleness of disposition. Envy or jeal- ousy never for a moment interupted the fraternal affection that subsisted between these great men. Of those passions, indeed, Luther seems to have been incapable. Neither did personal ambition come near him. Though he had so many titles to it, he never claimed the supremacy over his cotemporary reformers. Notwithstanding the great things he had performed, he gave himself no air of grandeur or importance. There was a sim- plicity and commonness in his habits and conversation, that contrast wonderfully with the revolution he brought about. This simplicity, we were going to say, shows his native greatness, but we correct ourselves and add, that it exhibits that Apostolic frame of mind which all the messengers of God from Moses downward, have displayed. Such men are moulded at once by the Hand that sends them. The accidents of this life have no power, (as they have upon others,) to change or modify their moral conformation. There is a oneness, a wholeness, an uncompoundedness of character in these elect instruments. On their moral frame is chiseled by the Divine finger one idea, and only one. The Colouring of Happiness. 27 Luther's piety was not put on him, but broke out of him. It flowed in a mingled stream, with his every-day life and con- versation. The gravel and the gold rolled together in the rich channel of his mind. He made no effort to exhibit only the Dne, and conceal the other. Life of Melancthon. i Colouring of Ikpptows. My heart is full of prayer and praise to-day, So beautiful the whole world seems to me ! I know the morn has dawned as it is wont, I know the breeze comes on no lighter wing, I know the brook chimed yesterday the same Melodious call to my unanswering thought : But I look forth with new created eyes, And soul and sense seem linked, and thrill alike, And things familiar have unusual grown, Taking my spirit with a fair surprise ! But yesterday, and life seemed tented round With idle sadness. Not a bird sang out But with a mournful meaning : not a cloud, And there were many, but in flitting past Trailed somewhat of its darkness o'er my heart, And loitering, half-becalmed, unfreighted all, Went by the Heaven-bound hours. But ! to-day Lie all harmonious and lovely things Close to my spirit, and awhile it seems As if the blue sky were enough of Heaven ! 28 The Colouring of Happiness. My thoughts are like tense chords that give their music At a chance breath : a thousand delicate hands Are harping on my soul ! no sight no sound But stirs me to the keenest sense of pleasure — Be it no more than the wind's cautious tread, The swaying of a shadow, or a bough, Or a dove's flight across the silent sky. Oh, in this sunbright sabbath of the heart, How many a prayer puts on the guise of thought, An angel unconfessed ! Its rapid feet, That leave no print on memory's sands, tread not Less surely their bright path than choral hymns And litanies. I know the praise of worlds, And the soul's unvoiced homage, both arise Distinctly to His ear who holds all nature Pavilioned by His presence : who has fashioned With an impartial care, alike the star That keeps unpiloted its airy circle, And the sun quickened germ, or the poor moss The building swallow plucks to line her nest. Edith May. To determine right and wrong, is of more consequence than to comprehend the doctrine of the planetary system : but while it required, in order to unfold the wonderful laws of the planets, the gigantic intellect of Newton, the higher gift of the determination of right and wrong, is bestowed upon the simplest peasant, upon the man who cannot repeat the enumeration table. Upham. Desirable /ana. " Fame, like the shadow, flees from him who pursues it, but treads on the heels of him who flees from it." William Penn furnishes a remarkable instance of the ac- quisition of solid and durable fame, by means which in their commencement appeared totally destructive of that end. When, upon arriving at man's estate, he embraced the re- ligious principles of a new and despised Society, he must have considered himself, and been considered by others, as giving up all his prospects of eminence in the world. The mortifica- tion which his father experienced, upon discovering the choice he had made, unquestionably arose from a belief that he was renouncing the path of eminence and fame, for one of obscurity and reproach. To see his only son, the heir apparent of his fortune and fame, instead of pursuing the brilliant career which was opened before him, associating with a self-denying people, who were considered as the offscourings of the earth, was more than his philosophy could patiently bear. The pacific principles of the Society to which he was united, as well as the uncourtly character of their peculiar doctrines, must have formed, in the view of Admiral Penn, an insuperable barrier to the advancement of his son. He did not perceive that the magnanimity displayed in that very renunciation of eminence and fame, that inflexible adherence to the path of apprehended duty without regard to consequences, that preference to the whispers of an approving conscience above the noisy clamours of an applauding world, would assign him a station in the tem- ple of fame, incomparably higher than that which the admiral had attained with all his heroism. 3* 29 30 Desirable Fame. The fame of William Perm, unlike that of most who have figured in the political field, appears likely to increase with the progress of time. The history of Pennsylvania is so intimately connected with the name of Wm. Penn, as to secure to the founder of that flourishing state a permanent place in the annals of fame. Of the admiral how little do we now hear. We find, indeed, that he commanded the fleet which in 1655 conquered Jamaica, and that in the Dutch War, in the reign of Charles II., he commanded under the Duke of York. It is also known to those who are well acquainted with historical facts, that the name of Penn was prefixed by Charles II. to that of Sylvania, as originally proposed, out of regard to the memory of the admiral, and not from the name of the pro- prietor. But it is with the son, and not with the father, that Pennsylvania is associated. Sir William Penn is remembered chiefly as the father of the Quaker legislator, and holds from that connection a larger place in the view of posterity than from any other cause. While the name of the father is merged in the countless mass of military characters who are seldom mentioned or thought of, the name of the son stands con- spicuous among the greatest benefactors of our race. The his- tory of the province which bears his name, proves conclusively the superiority of the gospel plan above the policy of the world. He has had the honour of proving that the tomahawk and scalping knife of the savage may be stripped of their terrors by the lenient spirit of the gospel. Which would the most eager aspirants after fame prefer, if they could command it with a wish, to be Admiral Penn, with the scanty rays of military renown that now surround his memory, or to be Willam Penn, the Quaker founder of Pennsylvania, whose wise and benevolent institutions gave a favourable impetus to the legislation of the western world ; whose bloodless conquests have been celebrated by poets and historians ; whose name is transmitted with reverence from generation to generation, amongst the untutored The Tempest. 31 inhabitants of the wilderness ; whose character is most admired where it is best understood : and who, when the day arrives " in which nation shall no longer lift up sword against nation," will be remembered as one who gave the influence of eminent abilities and a conspicuous station, to promote the advancement of the Messiah's peaceful reign. E. Lewis. J. T. FIELDS. "We were crowded in the cabin, Not a soul would dare to sleep, — It was midnight on the waters, And a storm was on the deep. 'Tis a fearful thing, in winter To be shattered in the blast, And to hear the rattling trumpet, Thunder, " Cut away the mast !" So we shuddered there in silence, — For the stoutest held his breath, — While the hungry sea was roaring, And the breakers talked with Death. As thus we sat in darkness, Each one busy in his prayers, "We are lost!" the captain shouted, As he staggered down the stairs. 32 Who is thy Neighbour. But his little daughter whispered, As she took his icy hand, " Is 'nt God upon the ocean, Just the same as on the land V' Then we kissed the little maiden, And we spoke in better cheer, And we anchored safe in harbour, | When the moon was shining clear. : i B3fi0 Is tin} Urigjffora*? Thy neighbour ? It is he whom thou Hast power to aid and bless j Whose aching heart and burning brow, Thy soothing hand may press. Thy neighbour % 'Tis the fainting poor, Whose eye with want is dim, Whom hunger sends from door to door : — ; Go thou and succour him. Thy neighbour ? 'Tis the weary man Whose years are at the brim, Bent low with sickness, cares and pain, Go thou and comfort him. Thy neighbour ? 'Tis the heart bereft Of every earthly gem : Widow and orphan helpless left ; Go thou and shelter them. Who is thy Neighbour. 33 Thy neighbour 1 Yonder toiling slave, Fettered in thought and limb, Whose thoughts are all beyond the grave, Gro thou and ransom him. Where'ere thou meet'st a human form, Less favored than thine own, Remember 'tis thy neighbour worm, Thy brother or thy son. Oh pass not, pass not heedless by : Perhaps thou can'st redeem The breaking heart from misery, Go share thy lot with him. Methinks if you would know, How visitations of calamity Affect the pious soul, 'tis shown you there ! Look yonder at that cloud, which, through the sky Sailing along, doth cross in her career The rolling moon ! I watched it as it came, And deemed the deep opaque would blot her beams. But melting, like a wreath of snow, it hangs In folds of wavy silver round, and clothes The orb with richer beauties than her own : Then passing leaves her in her light serene. SOUTHEY. W\}in is §t dtmtnj? L. M. Child says " I have somewhere read of a regiment ordered to march into a small town, and take it. I think it was in the Tyrol : but wherever it was, it chanced that the place was settled by a colony who believed the Gospel of Christ, and proved their faith by works. A courier from a neighbouring village informed them that troops were advancing to take the town. They quietly answered — " If they will take it, they must." Soldiers soon came riding in, with colours flying, and fifes piping their shrill defiance. They looked round for an enemy, and saw the farmer at his plough, the blacksmith at his anvil, and the women at their churns and spinning-wheels. Babies crowed to hear the music, and boys ran out to see the pretty trainers, with feathers and bright buttons, " the harlequins of the nineteenth century." Of course none of these were in a proper position to be shot at. " Where are your soldiers 1" they asked, " we have none," was the brief reply. — " But we have come to take the town." — " Well friends it lies before you." — " But is there nobody here to fight ?" — No, we are all Christians." Here was an emergency altogether unprovided for : a sort of resistance which no bullet could hit : a fortress perfectly bomb-proof. The commander was perplexed. " If there is nobody to fight with, of course we cannot fight," said he, " It is impossible to take such a town as this." So he ordered the horses heads to be turned about, and they carried the human animals out of the village as guiltless as they entered, and perchance somewhat wiser. This experiment on a small scale, indicates how easy it would be to dispense with armies and navies if men only had faith in the religion they profess to believe. 34 Clnrtaon at IBabesraill. Lucy Barton. A wanderer by the road-way side, Where leafy tall trees grow, Casting their branching shadows wide, Sits on the turf below. Though rich the landscape, hill and plain Before him there outspread, One hand holds fast his bridle rein, One props his thoughtful head. All is forgotten or unknown, For, o'er the troubled main, His ear has caught the captive's groan, Has heard his clanking chain. Near half a century hath flown ; That way-side wanderer now A venerable sage hath grown, With years traced on his brow. More bent in form, more dim of eye, More faltering in his pace : But time has stamped in dignity, More than it reft of grace. And joy in his age cannot chill, — Memories it need not shun ! The Zo?ie, enthusiast of Wadesmill His glorious goal hath won ! 36 The Worth of Hours. Not vainly has he watched the ark, Wherein his hopes were shrined, Nor vainly fanned fair freedom's spark, In many a kindling mind. e 38orf[r of Mms. Believe not that your inner eye Can ever in just measure try The worth of hours as they go by : For every man's weak self, alas ! Makes him to see them, while they pass, As through a dim or tinted glass. But if in earnest care you would Mete out to each its part of good, Trust rather to your after-mood. Those surely are not fairly spent, That leave your spirit bowed and bent, In sad unrest and ill-content : And more : though, free from seeming harm, You rest from toil of mind or arm, Or slow retire from Pleasure's charm : If then a painful sense comes on Of something wholly lost and gone, Vainly enjoyed or vainly done ; Of something from your being's chain Broke off, nor to be linked again By all mere memory can retain, In Memoriam. 37 Upon your heart this truth may rise : Nothing that altogether dies, Suffices man's just destinies. So should we live that every hour May die, as dies the natural flower, A self-reviving thing of power : That every thought and every deed, May hold within itself the seed Of future good and future meed ; Esteeming sorrow, whose employ Is to develope, not destroy, Far better than a barren Joy. R. M. MlLNES. In Eifmoriam. The path by which we twain did go, Which led by tracts that pleased us well, Though four sweet years, arose and fell, From flower to flower, from snow to snow And we with singing cheered the way, And crowned with all the season lent, From April on to April went, And glad at heart from May to May : But where the path we walked, began To slant the fifth autumnal slope, As we descended, following Hope, There sat the Shadow feared of man. 4 38 In Memoriam. Who broke our fair companionship, And spread his mantle dark and cold, And wrapped thee formless in the fold, And dulled the murmur on thy lip % My blood an even tenor kept Till on my ear this message falls, That in Vienna's fatal walls God's finger touched him, and he slept. Oh thou and I wert one in kind As moulded like in nature's mint ; And hill and wood and field did print The same sweet forms in either mind. For as the same cold streamlet curled Through all his eddying coves the same ; All winds that roam the twilight came In whispers of the beauteous world. At one dear knee we proffered vows, One lesson from one book we learned, Ere childhood's flaxen ringlet turned To black and brown, on kindred brows. * * * * I falter where I firmly trod, And, falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world's altar-stairs That slope through darkness up to God ; I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope. Alfred Tennyson, Jtart-^riirfs of fy Creator. * * The definite period at which man was introduced upon the scene, seems to have been specially determined by the con- ditions of correspondence which the phenomena of his habitation had at length come to assume with the predestined constitution of his mind. The large reasoning brain would have been wholly out of place in the earlier ages. It is indubitably the nature of man to base the conclusions which regulate all his actions on fixed phenomena ; — he reasons from cause to effect, or from effect to cause ; and when placed in circumstances in which, from some lack of the necessary basis, he cannot so reason, he becomes a wretched, timid, superstitious creature, greatly more helpless and abject than even the inferior animals. This un- happy state is strikingly exemplified by that deep and peculiar impression made on the mind by a severe earthquake, which Humboldt, from his own experience, so powerfully describes. " This impression," he says, " is not, in my opinion, the result of a recollection of those fearful pictures of devastation pre- sented to our imagination by the historical narratives of the past, but is rather due to the sudden revelation of the delusive nature of the inherent faith by which we had clung to a belief in the immobility of the soil on which we tread : and this feel- ing is confirmed by the evidence of our senses. When therefore, we suddenly feel the ground move beneath us, a mysterious force, with which we were previously unacquainted, is revealed to us as an active disturber of stability. A moment destroys the illusion of a whole life : our deceptive faith in the repose of nature vanishes : and we feel transported into a realm of unknown destructive forces. Every sound, — the faintest mo- tion of the air, — arrests our attention, and we no longer trust the ground on which we stand. There is an idea conveyed to the mind, of some universal and unlimited danger. We may 39 40 Foot-Prints of the Creator. flee from the crater of a volcano in active eruption, or from the dwelling whose destruction is threatened by the approach of the lava stream : but in an earthquake direct our flight whitherso- ever we will, we still feel as though we trod upon the very focus of destruction." Not less striking is the testimony of Dr. Tschudi, in his •« Travels in Peru," regarding this singular effect of earthquakes on the human mind. " No familiarity with the phenomenon can," he remarks, " blunt the feeling. The inhabitant of Lima, who, from childhood, has frequently witnessed these convulsions of nature, is roused from his sleep by the shock, and rushes from his apartment with the cry of l Misericordia !' The foreigner from the north of Europe, who knows nothing of earth- quakes but by description, waits with impatience to feel the movements of the earth, and longs to hear with his own ear, the subterranaean sounds, which he has hitherto considered fabulous. With levity he treats the apprehension of a coming canvulsion, and laughs at the fears of the natives : but as soon as his wish is gratified, he is terror-stricken, and is involuntarily prompted to seek safety in flight." Now, a partially consolidated planet, tempested by frequent earthquakes of such terrible potency, that those of the historic ages would be but mere ripples of the earth's surface in com- parison, could be no proper home for a creature so constituted. The fish or reptile, — animals of a limited range of instinct, exceedingly tenacious of life in most of their varieties, oviparous, prolific, and whose young, immediately on their escape from the egg, can provide for themselves, might enjoy existence in such circumstances, to' the full extent of their narrow capacities : and when sudden death fell upon them, — though their remains, scattered over wide areas, continue to exhibit that distortion of posture incident to violent dissolution, which seems to speak of terror and suffering, — we may safely conclude there was but little real suffering in the case : they were happy up to a certain Foot-Prints of the Creator. 41 point, and unconscious forever after. Fishes and reptiles were the proper inhabitants of our planet during the ages of the earth-tempests : and when, under the operation of the chemical laws, these had become less frequent and terrible, the higher mammals were introduced. That prolonged ages of these tempests did exist, and that they gradually settled down, until the state of things became at length comparatively fixed and stable, few geologists will be disposed to deny. The evidence which supports this special theory of the development of our planet in its capabilities as a scene of organised and sentient being, seems palpable at every step. Yes, we find everywhere, marks of at once progression and identity, — of progress made and yet identity maintained : but it is in the habitation that we find them, not in the inhabitants. There is a tract of country in Hindostan that contains nearly as many square miles as all Great Britain, covered to the depth of hundreds of feet by one vast overflow of trap : a tract similarly overflown, which exceeds in area all England, occurs in Southern Africa. The earth's surface is roughened with such, — mottled as thickly by the Plutonic masses, as the skin of the leopard by its spots. The trap district, which surrounds the Scottish metropolis, and imparts so imposing a character to its scenery, is too inconsid- erable to be marked on geological maps of the world, that we yet see streaked and speckled with similar memorials, though on an immensely vaster scale, of the eruption and overflow which took place during the earthquake ages. What could man have done on the globe at a time when such outbursts were comparatively common occurrences ? What could he have done where Edinburgh now stands during that overflow of trap- porphyry of which the Pentland range forms but a fragment, or that outburst of greenstone, of which but a portion remains in the dark ponderous coping of Salisbury Craigs, or when the thick floor of rock on which the city stands was broken up, like the ice of an arctic sea during a tempest in spring, and laid on f 4* 42 Foot-Prints of the Creator. edge from where it leans against the Castle Hill to beyond the quarries at Joppa ? The reasoning brain would have been wholly at fault in a scene of things in which it could neither foresee the exterminating calamity while yet distant, nor control it when it had come ; and so the reasoning brain was not produced until the scene had undergone a slow, but thorough process of change, during which, at each progressive stage, it had furnished a platform for higher and still higher life. When the coneferas could flourish on the land, and fishes subsist in the seas, fishes and cone-bearing plants were created ; when the earth became a fit habitation for reptiles and birds, reptiles and birds were produced : with the dawn of a more stable and mature state of things, the sagacious quadruped was ushered in : and last of all, when man's house was fully prepared for him, when the data on which it is his nature to reason and calculate, had become fixed and certain, — the reasoning, calculating brain was moulded by the creative finger, and man became a living soul. Such seems to be the true reading of the wondrous inscription chiseled deep in the rocks. It furnishes us with no clue by which to unravel the unapproachable mysteries of creation ; these mys- teries belong to the wondrous Creator, and to Him only. We attempt to theorise upon them, and to reduce them to law, and all nature rises up against us in our presumptuous rebellion. A stray splinter of cone-bearing wood, — a fish's skull or tooth, — the vertebrae of a reptile, — the humerus of a bird, — the jaws of a quadruped, — all, any of these things, weak and insignificant as they may seem, become, in such a quarrel, too strong for us and our theory : the puny fragment, in the grasp of truth, forms as irresistible a weapon as the dry bone did in that of Sampson of old : and our slaughtered sophisms lie piled up, " heaps upon heaps," before it. Hugh Miller. Clit Disenthrall^. He had bowed down to drunkenness, An abject worshipper : The pride of manhood's pulse had grown Too faint and cold to stir : And he had given his spirit up To the unblessed thrall, And bowing to the poison cup, He gloried in his fall ! There came a change — the cloud rolled off, And light fell on his brain — And like the passing of a dream That cometh not again, The shadow of the spirit fled. He saw the gulf before, He shuddered at the waste behind, And was a man once more. He shook the serpent folds away, That gathered round his heart, As shakes the swaying forest-oak Its poison vine apart ; He stood erect — returning pride Grew terrible within, And conscience sat in judgment, on His most familiar sin. The light of Intellect' again Along his pathway shone — And Reason, like a monarch sat — Upon his olden throne. 43 44 To Joseph Sturge on the death of his Sister. The honoured and the wise onee more Within his presence came, — And lingered oft on lovely lips, His once forbidden name. There may be glory in the might, That treadeth nations down, — Wreaths for the crimson conquerer, Pride for the kingly crown : But nobler is that triumph hour, The disenthralled shall find, When evil passion boweth down, Unto the Godlike mind ! J. G. W. €n %w$ liurge on fijB bmfy of fris §w\ti Thine is a grief, the depth of which, another, May never know, Yet o'er the waters, my stricken brother ! To thee I go. I lean my heart unto thee — sadly folding Thy hand in mine, With even the weakness of my soul upholding The strength of thine. I never knew, like thee, the dear departed ; I stood not by When in calm trust, the pure and tranquil hearted Lay down to die. /To Joseph Sturge on the death op his Sister. 45 And on thy ear my words of weak condoling, Must vainly fall ; The funeral bell which in thy heart is tolling Sounds over all ! I will not mock thee with the poor world's common And heartless phrase, Nor wrong the memory of a sainted woman With idle praise. "With silence only as their benediction, God's angels come, Where in the shadow of a great affliction, The soul sits dumb ! Yet would 1 say what thy own heart approveth : Our Father's will, Calling to Him, the dear one, whom He loveth, Is mercy still. Not upon thee or thine the solemn angel Hath evil wrought, Her funeral anthem is a glad evangel — The good die not ! God calls our loved ones ; but we lose not wholly What he hath given : They live on earth, in thought and deed, as truly As in his Heaven. And she is with thee. In thy path of trial She walketh yet : Still with the baptism of thy self-denial, Her locks are wet. 46 True Rest. Up, then, my brother ! Lo the fields of harvest Lie white in view ! She lives and loves thee, and the God thou servest, To both is true. Thrust in thy sickle ! England's toil-worn peasants, Thy call abide : And she thou niourn'st, a pure and holy presence, Shall glean beside ! J. G. W. €m %ui Sweet is the pleasure itself cannot spoil. Is not true leisure one with true toil ? Thou that would'st taste it, still do thy best, — Abuse it not, waste it not, else 'tis no rest. Would'st behold beauty, near thee, around I Only hath duty such a sight found ! Rest is not quitting the busy career — Rest is the fitting of self to its sphere. 'Tis the brook's motion, clear, without strife, Fleeing to ocean, after its life. Deeper devotion nowhere hath knelt, Fuller emotion heart never felt, 'Tis loving and serving the highest and best — 'Tis onward — unswerving — and this is True Rest. Christian Register. e 3 mm This distinguished bird, as he is the most beautiful of his tribe, in this part of the world, and the adopted emblem of our country, is entitled to particular notice. He has been long known to naturalists, being common to both continents ; and occasionally met with from a very high northern latitude, to the borders of'the torrid zone, but chiefly in the vicinity of the sea, and along the shores and cliffs of our lakes and large rivers. Formed by nature for braving the severest cold ; feeding equally on the produce of the sea, and of the land ; possessing powers of flight, — capable of outstripping even the tempests themselves ; unawed by anything but man, and, from the ethereal heights to which he soars, looking abroad at one glance, on an immeasurable expanse of forests, fields, lakes and ocean, deep below him ; he appears indifferent to the little localities of change of seasons ; as in a few minutes he can pass from summer to winter, from the lower to the higher regions of the atmosphere, the abode of eternal cold, and thence descend at will to the torrid or the arctic regions of the earth. He is therefore found at all seasons in the countries he inhabits ; but prefers such places as have been mentioned above, from the great partiality he has for fish. In procuring these he displays, in a very singular manner, the genius and energy of his character, which is fierce, con- templative, daring, and tyrannical ; attributes not exerted but on particular occasions ; but when put forth, overpowering all opposition. Elevated on a high dead limb of some gigantic tree, that commands a wide view of the neighbouring shore and ocean, he seems calmly to contemplate the motions of the various feathered tribes that pursue their busy avocations below; the snow white gulls slowly winnowing the air; the busy 47 48 The Bald Eagle. Yungse, coursing along the sands ; trains of Ducks, streaming over the surface ; silent and watchful Cranes, intent and wading.; clamourous Crows, and all the winged multitudes that subsist by the bounty of this vast liquid magazine of nature. High over all these hovers one, whose action instantly arrests all his attention. By his wide curvature of wing, and sudden suspension in air, he knows him to be the Fish-Hawk, settling over some devoted victim of the deep. His eye kindles at the sight, and balancing himself, with half opened wings, on the branch, he watches the result. Down, rapid as an arrow from heaven, descends the distant object of his attention, the roar of its wings reaching the ear as it disappears in the deep, making the surges foam around. At this moment the eager looks of the Eagle are all ardour ; and levelling his neck for flight, he sees the Fish-Hawk once more emerge struggling with his prey, and mounting in the air with screams of exultation. These are the signal for our hero, who, launching into the air, instantly gives chase, soon gains on the Fish-Hawk, each exerts his utmost to mount above the other, displaying in these rencounters the most elegant and sublime aerial evolutions. The unincumbered Eagle rapidly advances, and is just on the point of reaching his opponent, when with a sudden scream, probably of despair and honest execration, the latter drops his fish ; the Eagle poising himself for a moment, as if to take a more certain aim, descends like a whirlwind, snatches it in his grasp ere he reaches the water, and bears his ill-gotten booty silently away to the woods. Wilson's American Ornithology. One is much less sensible to cold on a bright day than on a cloudy one : thus the sunshine of cheerfulness and hope will lighten every trouble. ftaalttit. The following paragraph suggested the lines below it. " A severe Earth- quake is said to have taken place at Jerusalem, which has destroyed a great part of that City, shaken down the mosque of Omar, and reduced the Holy Sepulchre to ruins from top to bottom." Four lamps were burning o'er two mighty graves, Godfrey's and Baldwin's — Salem's christian Kings — And holy light glanc'd from Helena's naves, Fed with the incense which the Pilgrim brings — While through the pannell'd roof, the Cedar flings Its sainted arms o'er choir and roof and dome, And every porphyry-pillar'd cloister rings To every kneeler there its " welcome home," As every lip breathes out, " Lord- thy kingdom come." A mosque was garnished with its crescent moons, And a clear voice call'd Musslemans to prayer. There were the splendours of Judea's thrones — There were the trophies which its conquerors wear — All but the truth, the holy truth, was there : For there, with lip profane the crier stood, And him from the tall minaret you might hear Singing to all whose steps had thither trod, That verse misunderstood, li There is no God but God." Hark ! did the Pilgrim tremble as he kneel'd ! And did the turban'd Turk his sins confess ! Those mighty hands, the elements that wield, That mighty power that knows to curse or bless, Is over all ; and in whatever dress 5 49 50 Jerusalem. His suppliants crowd around him. He can see Their heart, in city or in wilderness, And probe its core, and make its blindness see That He is very God, the only Deity. There was an Earthquake once, that rent thy fane Proud Julian ; when, (against the prophecy Of Him who liv'd, and died, and rose again, " That one stone on another should not lie,") Thou woulds't rebuild that Jewish Masonr\ To mock the eternal word — the earth below Gush'd out in fire — and from the brazen sky, And from the boiling seas such wrath did flow, As saw not Slmiar's plain, nor Babel's overthrow. Another Earthquake comes. Dome, roof and wall Tremble ; and headlong to the grassy bank And in the muddied stream the fragments fall, While the rent chasm spread its jaws, and drank At one huge draught, the sediment, which sank In Salem's drained goblet. Mighty Power, Thou, whom we all should worship, praise and thank, Where was thy mercy in that awful hour, When hell mov'd from beneath, and thine own Heaven did lower. Say, Pilate's Palace : — say, proud Herod's towers — Say, gate of Bethlehem, did your arches quake ? Thy Pool Bethesda, was it fill'd with showers ? Calm Gihon, did the jar thy waters wake ? Tomb of thee, Mary — Virgin — did it shake ? Glow'd thy bought field, Aceldema, with blood ? Where were the shudderings Calvary might make? Did sainted Mount Moriah send a flood, To wash away the spot where once a God had stood ! Jerusalem. 51 Lost Salem of the Jews — great sepulchre, Of all profane and of all holy things, Where Jew and Turk and Gentile yet concur To make thee what thou art ! With the sad truth which He has prophesied, Who would have sheltered with his holy wings Thee and thy children. You his power defied ; You scourg'd Him while he liv'd, and mock'd Him as He died. There is a Star in the untroubled sky, That caught the first light which its Maker made — It led the hymn of other orbs on high, 'Twill shine when all the fires of Heaven shall fade. Pilgrims at Salem's porch, be that your aid ! For it has kept its watch on Palestine ! Look to its holy light, nor be dismay'd, Though broken is each consecrated shrine, Though crush'd and ruin'd all — which men have called divine. Brainard. In our journey through life, we come upon a fountain of holy delight, and the stream from it we follow, day by day, and year after year. And perhaps then it vanishes, and leaves us to walk a dry and dusty and unlovely path. But that sweet stream — is it lost in the salt sea of sorrow, along with the river of am- bition, and the muddy torrents of the world ? no ! it has not ended in the salt sea of sorrow, nor ever reached it. It has dis- appeared with perhaps the heat of the day in summer. And so, not into the sea of hopeless sorrow but into the sky it has gone : and if we are watchful it will hold for us there the rainbow of heavenly promise. Thorpe. ^arkfjam Craig. Pardshaw Craig in Cumberland is a point of limestone ledge, where George Fox used to stand and preach to many thousand people at a time ; — there is something extraordinary in the conformation of the place ; the " preacher's clint," is a rock rising immediately from the brink of a perpendicular cliff of about fifteen feet, and not unlike in height, size and shape to a pulpit ; on the back, the ground rises a little, but nearly level for several yards, on which there are thickly strewn and permanently embedded a great number of square limestone rocks, about two feet high and the same square ; one could almost imagine them the work of the hand of art, but this evidently is not the case, as the same phenomenon may be seen every where over the hill. We thought five hundred persons might be seated on the rocks, behind the "preacher's clint," and within hearing. From the base of the perpendicular cliff, the ground slopes to the eastward, forming, with the brow of the hill which curves a little in the form of a new moon, a par- tial amphitheatre ; from some unaccountable cause, a person may be heard, with an ordinary modulation of voice, over a space that we thought would contain one hundred thousand persons ; here George Fox on one occasion convinced nearly all the inhabitants of the neighbourhood. The country round is beautiful in the extreme ; — it is the land of mountains and lakes, than which nothing can be more picturesque. L. M. Hoag. True religion is internal : the noblest temple of the Deity, is the heart of man. 52 %\\m WRITTEN BY A LADY, AS AN EXCUSE FOR HER ZEAL IN THE CAUSE OF TEMPERANCE. Go, feel what I have felt, Go, bear what I have borne — Sink 'neath the blow a father dealt, And the cold world's proud scorn — Thus struggle on from year to year, Thy sole relief, the scalding tear. Go, weep as I have wept, O'er a loved father's fall, See every cherished promise swept — Youth's sweetness turned to gall ; Hope's faded flowers strewed all the way, That led me up to woman's day ! Go, kneel as I have knelt, Implore, beseech, and pray, — Strive the besotted heart to melt, The downward course to stay, — Be cast with bitter curse aside, Thy prayers burlesqued, thy tears defied. Go, stand where I have stood, And see the strong man bow, With gnashing teeth, lips bathed in blood, And cold and livid brow : Go, catch his wandering glance, and see There, mirrored, his soul's misery. 5* 53 54 Lines by a Lady. Go, hear what I have heard, The sobs of sad despair, As memory, feeling's fount hath stirred, And its revealings there Have told him what he might have been. Had he the drunkard's fate foreseen. Go to thy mother's side, And her crushed spirit cheer ; Thine own deep anguish hide, Wipe from her cheek the tear, — Mark her dimmed eye, her furrowed brow, The grey that streaks her dark hair now, Her toil-worn frame, her trembling limb, And trace the ruin back to him, Whose plighted faith in early youth, Promised eternal love and truth — But who, foresworn, hath yielded up This promise to the deadly cup, And led her down from love and light, From all that made her pathway bright, And chained her there 'mid want and strife, That lowly thing, — A Drunkard's Wife ! And stamped on childhood's brow so mild, That withering blight, — A Drunkard's child ! Go, hear, and see, and feel and know, All that my soul hath felt or known, Then look upon the wine-cup's glow, See if its brightness can atone, Think, if its flavour you would try, If all proclaimed — " 'Tis drink, and die!" Christianity. 55 Tell me I hate the bowl ? Hate is a feeble word — I loathe, abhor — my very soul With strong disgust is stirred, Where'er I see, or hear, or tell, Of the dark beverage of hell ! C[mBttamiij. If Providence had intended no other object but to awaken and exercise the human intellect, Christianity would have done for man what no other system has effected. It went forth in its very childhood like its own great Master, into the very sanctuary of heathen philosophy, and sat down there, not only to hear and answer questions, but to teach and confute. In other times with an intensity of purpose, which nothing but real devotion could support, it threw forth the noblest feelings and affections of man into creations of beauty, such as no worldly thought realized : creations, not of the eye, but of the heart, into which, by a deep and conscious instinct, the soul of man was transfused, and which, therefore, will act upon that soul, even to the latest generation ; not as the toys and play- things of modern art, merely to amuse and surprise, but as the works of God in nature, to feed and invigorate and govern. Fine sensibilities are like woodbines — delightful luxuries of beauty to twine round a solid upright stem of understand- ing: but very poor things, if, unsustained by strength, they are left to creep along the ground. W$m mill ijjt Millennium come? * * * There is a charm in the millennial name. The wing of poetry flags under this great conception. Sometimes we see it under the type of a wilderness newly clothed with bud and blossom : sometimes we see it under the type of a city descend- ing from Heaven, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband : sometimes we behold it as a great temple, arising out of the earth, and capacious enough to contain all nations. This temple is not built of earthly materials, that will perish with the using, but is supported on immutable columns. Every great moral and religious principle is a pillar in the millennial temple. The principle of total abstinence from all intoxicating liquors is one pillar : the doctrine that all slave-holding is sinful is another pil- lar, standing firm, awfully grand and immovable : the doctrine of the absolute inviolability of human life is another : this is in a state of preparation, but it will soon ascend, and stand brightly and majestically in,its place : and thus, principle after principle will be established, in the tops of the mountains, and shall expand upon the eye of the beholder, far more beautiful than the Parthenon ! And what then will be wanting? Only that the nations in the language of prophecy, shall flow into it : only that the people should occupy it, and rejoice in it : and this is millennial glory. But, unless yon have firm, unchangeable, immutable principles, it will be like a certain house, that was built upon the sand : " and the rains descended, and the floods came, and it fell, and great was the fall of it." The doctrines of the millenium are the doctrines'of to-day : the principles of the millennium are the very principles which are obligatory on the men of the present generation : the bond which will exclude all contention, and will bind together all hearts, will be nothing more nor less than the Gospel of Christ. Upham. 56 lints hq Mt-m\\i World Kedeemer ! Lord of Glory ! As of old, to zealous Paul, Thou didst come in sudden splendour And from out the clouds didst call : As to Mary in the garden, Did thy risen form appear, Come, arrayed in heavenly beauty, Come, and speak, and I will hear ! " Hast thou not," the master answered, " Hast thou not my written word ? Hast thou not, to go before thee, The example of the Lord ?" Blessed one ! thy word of wisdom, Is too high for me to know, And my feet are all too feeble, For the path where Thou didst go. Doubts torment me when I study : — All my reading and my thinking, Lead away from firm conviction, And in mire my feet are sinking. Then I turn to works of duty, — Here thy law is very plain — But I look at thy example, Strive to follow, strive in vain. Let me gaze, then, on thy glory, Change to flesh this heart of stone — Let the light illume my darkness, That around the apostle shone ! 57 58 Lines by De-Wette. Cold belief is not conviction — Rules are impotent to move, Let me see thy heavenly beauty, Let me learn to trust and love. In my heart the voice made answer, " Ask thou not a sign from Heaven ; In the Gospel of thy Saviour, Life as well as Light is given. Ever looking unto Jesus, All his glory thou shalt see — From thy heart the veil be taken, And the word made clear to thee. " Love the Lord, and thou shalt see Him Do his will, and thou shalt know, How the spirit lights the letter — How a little child may go, Where the wise and prudent stumble j How a heavenly glory shines, In his acts of love and mercy, From the Gospel's simplest lines !" There is something in the condition of a slave, that, beyond every other marked by human misery, defies the power of hope to gild its future : and herein, perhaps, lies (though it seems like a paradox,) the secret of those light smiles and all that careless merriment, of which we are told by those who would defend the abomination. It is only when it is possible that some change may alter our condition, that we feel either anxious or hopeful about it. King David fasted and wept while his spirit was suspended between hope and fear : but when all was over — when all hope had fled, he arrayed himself and feasted. €n \\)t 3&nk How much that Genius boasts as hers, And fancies hers alone, On you, meek spirits, Faith confers ! The proud have further gone, Perhaps through life's dull maze : but you Alone possess the labyrinth's clue ! To you the costliest spoils of Thought, Wisdom unclaimed yields up : To you her far-sought pearl is brought, And melted in your cup : To you her nard and myrrh she brings, Like Orient gifts to infant kings. The " single eye" alone can see All truths around us thrown, In their eternal unity : The humble ear alone Has room to hold and time to prize, The sweetness of Life's harmonies. Notions to thought made visible, Are but the smallest part, Of those immortal Truths which dwell Self-radiant in man's heart. With outward beams are others bright, But God has made you " full of liodit." One science well ye know : the will Of God — to man laid bare : One art have mastered : to fulfil The part assigned you there. If other, meaner lore ye sought, This first ye learned — to need it not ! Aubrey De Vere. 5D % Chief (Sunk When we come to the work of watching over our hearts, and amending our own lives, in earnest, as to a great and all-important work, which requires, not merely the whole con- centrated energies of the human mind, but the powerful assistance of the Holy Spirit added thereto, and working therewith, we feel for the first time the weakness, the vacillation, the worldliness, the propensity to error, the indisposition to duty, the sin in our nature ! Herein consists the benefit of sickness, and next to sickness, retirement. We there learn ourselves, that book of many pages, that text of many mean- ings ! An individual thrown, and thrown under disadvantageous circumstances, into close and constant intercourse with the world, has this book closed against him ; at least it requires a courageous, almost a mighty effort to break open its seals, and get at its secrets. In the noise and glare of a worldly life, how many false motives, how many erroneous opinions, may steal in and out of the heart unnoticed ; and shape themselves into action, and express themselves in words, contrary to the spirit of upright self-denying religion, with an influence so silent and unobtrusive, that the individual is not aware of the deadening process going on within him. Business, just, lawful, necessary business, comes first, with its imperative claims upon the mass of his time, and the main strength of his mind : recreation follows, and with the same plea of necessity, tithes the remain- ing portion ; physical nature, wearied, wanting, overtasked nature, brings up the rear, and demands all that remains, with an urgency not to be parried or set aside. Such is the tread- mill round : such the incessant surrender of time, thought, and strength, to business, pleasure and physical retirements ! — and there remains nothing for God ; nothing even for self in the best sense, till sickness comes, or till death suddenly stalks in, breaks like a giant the bands that have fettered the soul to earth, brings the struggling captive into the presence of its Maker, teaches in a moment, and with an energy not to be The Chief Good. 61 gainsayed, that one forgotten necessary was, — to learn to die ; — that if many things were expedient, one was emphatically " needful ;" if many good, one was the chief good, without which, all else exerted an ensnaring and destroying influence — with which, every pursuit would have been ennobled, every pure pleasure enhanced, every affection purified, every power strength- ened, every dispensation rendered a blessing, every affliction salutary. Alas, for the trials and temptations of this busy, changing, proud, perishing world ! and alas for those, obliged to pass through its furnace ! — called to use, yet commanded not to abuse it ; to be " not slothful in business," yet " fervent in spirit ;" to be a citizen in its high places, yet maintain the feel- ings of a pilgrim and a stranger ; to mingle in the pageant, with- out being conformed to its fashions, or governed by its motives, or anxious for its honours. Alas ! for such a one, were there no Divine Spirit to strengthen him with might in his inner man ; no compassionate Father to relieve his doubts, and fears, and sinkings of heart ; to hear his confessions of weakness, his supplications for wisdom, support, and consolation ; were there no all-atoning Redeemer to blot out the records of sin, condem- nation, deficiency, and error ; to present his prayers, plead his cause on high, and throw over the suppliant the garment of sal- vation. If I knew a friend so circumstanced, so peculiarly ex- posed to the snares and strifes of this world's influence, and if I felt for that friend the truest regard, joined to the most anxious interest ; and if I knew, too, that circumstances shielded me from much to which he was exposed — how sacred a duty would it seem, to bring before him glimpses of those truths which coun- teracting causes so tended to shut out, to venture to press home the absolute duty, the paramount importance of seeking first the kingdom of God, his righteousness, his rewards, his pleasures, and his service. Oh ! how sacred a duty would it appear, to think of that individual in the retired hours of meditation, to garrison him with desires for his heavenly interests, prayers for his spiritual welfare. 6 M. J. Jewsbury. JogQti'0 lommt. The sky was once bright, o'er the path which I trod, And the flowers sprang light, from the green bosomed sod The hills and the mountains were gay to mine eye, And the wild waters murmured in harmony by : The mountains still bloom and the waters still pour — But joy to my bosom shall never shine more. It was sweet once to sit by the gush of the spring, And hear in the wild-wood the mocking-bird sing. It was blithe, in the stillness and beauty of night, To catch the soft echoes that followed her flight : The night is still beautiful — sweet is the strain, But pleasure to Logan returns not again. My cabin was built by the verge of a lake, And beside me the voice of the Cataract spake : The dark bosomed forest stretched deep in the rear, And behind the blue mountains rose, lofty and clear : It was blithe to the heart, and serene to the eye, To see their long ridges uplifted on high. How oft have I sat at that cabin's low door, With those that shall sit b} T that cabin no more j And watched, in the last fading light of the day, "Which the shadows of twilight were driving away, The proud Eagle sail, slowly over the wave, Like the demon of fear, o'er the murderer's grave. The Great Spirit sent, from the home of the blest, The brightest of blessings which Logan possessed : 62 Logan's Lament. 63 'Twas the blessing of love : oh it twined round his heart, As joy which he fancied would never depart : His children and wife were more dear in his eye, Than the bloom of the earth, or the glow of the sky. I had long loved the white man — I gave him my hand, I refused 'gainst his nation to lift up the brand : My hut was his home, and my hearth was his bed ; And my food and my raiment before him were spread : When hungry and naked and weary of limb, The cabin of Logan was open to him. The men of my nation when passing, would say, " Lo, the friend of the white man !" and pass on their way ; I thought to have built me my tent on their plain, And peacefully cultured my little domain. But woe to the hand which the strong link can sever, And make Logan the foe of the white man forever ! "When I sat in the shade of mine own Alder tree, And saw the young scions surrounding my knee, No chief of my tribe was more happy than I, Sitting there in the light of my own native sky j As pure as the air that was whispering above, And owning no bond but the sweet tie of love. But the angel of Death was abroad on the blast, And over the flock of my bosom he passed : I had not the power his pinions to stay, And with one fatal flap they were hurried away: At the voice of destruction they sank in the flood, And the waves of Kanawa were red with their blood. Revenge was my watchword ! for it I have fought, And the boon is obtained which so dearly I bought : 04 Logan's Lament. I have sent forth my wrath for the souls of the slain, And peace to my country is welcome again. Yet think not I fear, 'tis a passion unknown, To him who now walks through the forest, alone : For life is a thing without value to me, I stand like the blackened and storm-beaten tree, "Which the fury and scathe of the tempest hath torn, And who is there now for poor Logan to mourn ? Not one ! not a creature on earth owns a part, In the life-drops that flow from his agonised heart : No one comes to succour and pity his state ; No one comes to sigh o'er the gloom of his fate. Desolation sits brooding upon his hearth stone, And Logan the Mingo is left all alone ! Yes I wander alone, like the deer on the hill, And a thousand wild fancies my dark bosom thrill. Like the light breeze that wafts the brown autumn leaf hither. So Logan goes forth, and no mortal knows whither. A spirit comes over the mountain afar — Like the lovely mild glow of the evening star, Her robe is of white, and is streaming behind, And she comes floating slow o'er the wings of the wind. It is she, — my companion in love, it is she ! And the bright angel group round her bosom I see ! The whisper of breezes ! she calls me away \ Oh why should I linger — oh why should I stay ? Yes, take me fair spirit away to thy sky, When joy is no more, tis a blessing to die. On earth there is nothing to banish my pain, For pleasure to Logan returns not again. C. W. Thomson. Jmtjr of (foptrnitM. Providence, which has ends innumerable to answer, in the con- duct of the physical and intellectual, as of the moral world, some- times permits the great discoverers fully to enjoy their fame ; sometimes to catch but a glimpse of the extent of their achieve- ments : and sometimes sends them dejected and heart broken to the grave, unconscious of the importance of their own discoveries, and not merely undervalued by their contemporaries, but by themselves. It is plain that Copernicus, like his great contem- porary, Columbus, though fully conscious of the boldness and the novelty of his doctrine, saw but a part of the changes it was to effect in science. After harboring in his bosom for long, long years, that pernicious heresy, — the solar system, — he died on the day of the appearance of his book from the press. The closing scene of his life, with a little help from the imagination, would furnish a noble subject for an artist. For thirty-five years he has revolved and matured in his mind, his system of the heavens. A natural mildness of disposition, bordering on timi- dity, a reluctance to encounter controversy, and a dread of per- secution, have led him to withhold his works from the press ; and to make known his system but to a few confidential disciples and friends. At length he draws near his end ; he is seventy-three years of age, and he yields his work on " the Revolutions of the heavenly orbs" to his friends for publication. The day at last has come, on which it is to be ushered into the world. It is the twenty-fourth of May, 1543. On that day, — the effect no doubt of the intense excitement of his mind, operating upon an exhausted frame, — an effusion of blood brings him to the gates of the grave. His last hour has come ; he lies stretched upon the couch, from which he will never rise, in his apartment at the Canonry at Frauenberg, East Prussia. The beams of the setting sun glance through the gothic win- l 6* 65 66 Death of Copernicus. dows of his chamber : near his bed-side is the armillary sphere, which he has contrived to represent the theory of his heavens, — his picture painted by himself, the amusement of his earlier years, hangs before him ; beneath it his Astrolabe and other im- perfect astronomical instruments ; and around him are gathered his sorrowing disciples. The door of the apartment opens ; — the eye of the departing sage is turned to see who enters ; it is a friend, who brings him the first printed copy of his immortal treatise. He knows that in that book he contradicts all that had ever been distictly taught by former philosophers : — he knows that he has rebelled against the sway of Ptolemy, which the scientific world had acknowledged for a thousand years ; — he knows that the popular mind will be shocked by his innova- tions ; he knows that the attempt will be made to press even re- ligion into the service against him ; but he knows that his book is true. He is dying, but he leaves a glorious truth, as his dy- ing bequest to the world. He bids the friend, who has brought it, place himself between the window and his bed-side, that the sun's rays may fall upon the precious volume, and he may be- hold it once, before his eyes grow dim. He looks upon it, takes it in his hands, presses it to his breast, and expires. — But no, he is not wholly gone ! A smile lights upon his dying countenance ; a beam of returning intelligence kindles in his eye ; — his lips move ; — and the friend, who leans over him, can hear him, faint- ly murnier the beautiful sentiments, which the Christian lyrist, of a later age, has so finely expressed in verse : " Ye golden lamps of heaven ! farewell, with all your feeble light, Farewell, thou ever-changing moon, pale empress of the night ! And thou, refulgent orb of day, in brighter flames arrayed, My soul, which springs beyond thy sphere, no more demands thy aid. Ye stars, are but the shining dust of my divine abode, The pavement of those heavenly courts, where I shall reign with God." t Cifg. JS t ot in the solitude Alone may man commune with Heaven, or see, Only in savage wood And sunny vale, the present Deity: Or only hear his voice Where the winds whisper, and the waves rejoice. Even here do I behold Thy steps, Almighty ! here, amidst the crowd Through the great city rolled With everlasting murmur, deep and loud, Choking the ways that wind 'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind. Thy golden sunshine comes From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies And lights their inner homes : For them thou fillest with air the unbounded skies — And givest them the stores Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores. Thy spirit is around, Quick'ning the restless mass that sweep along ; And this eternal sound, Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng, Like the resounding sea, Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of Thee ! And when the hours of rest, Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine, Flushing its billowy breast, The quiet of that moment too is thine : It breathes of Him who keeps The vast and helpless city while it sleeps. Bryant. 67 (Do -Draining. By many, the art of drawing is considered a useless accomplishment, having no practical value or importance. No opinion could be more erroneous. On the contrary, its utility makes it worthy of a prominent place among the pursuits of every class of people. To the mechanic and the man of science, the art of drawing is indispensable. The artisan must first draw his model if he would ensure success to his labour, and it is only the practised eye that can define the " little more or less" that is necessary to perfect the line of beauty, and none but a practised hand, can, by the slightest variation of a curve, add grace and effect to the whole contour. By the same means the scientific student demonstrates the result of his re- searches. Without the aid of the pencil how limited would be our knowledge of natural history, and the position and productions of the various countries with which we are now made familiar ! But regarding it merely as a pursuit of pleasure, it is a source of the most refined enjoyment. And is there nothing gained by the influence of such a pursuit on the mind ? Is not every pursuit valuable that is in itself elevating, whether its influence is limited to individuals or extended to communities ? Another advantage not to be overlooked in this pursuit, is, the increase it gives to our sources of pleasure : and in enumerating those that are most ^desirable, we would rank as the highest, that derived from the beauties of Nature. No one can take delight in them and be indifferent to their source. The lover of nature is not always a lover of art — but the true lover of art is always a lover of nature ;. and as a lover of nature, his pleasure is much increased by the habit of close observation that is necessary to the practice of art. The form of every leaf, the colour of every flower, and the hue of every cloud, then catch his attention, and by the admiration they Elizabeth Fry. 69 excite, the pleasure of the general view is much enhanced. It is truly said that, a habit of watchfulness of the outward world, is a pretty certain assurance of a well-informed man : and I would recommend a practice of the art if it were only for the nice discrimination it requires : for the application of this habit is invaluable in every other pursuit. M. A. Dwight. €li\nk§ /nj. The felon's bewailing, The Magdalen's sigh ; The tears of the widow, The fatherless cry, — These are her epitaph, Written above :— Lasting memorials — Records of love. Spirit of Howard, Look down from on high,- On the grave of thy sister, Elizabeth Fry ! Wrapped in thy mantle, She entered the cell, A priestess of Heaven, On the threshold of Hell,- An angel of mercy, Wherever she went, Calling, like Peter,— On men to repent. 70 Elisabeth Fry. Wearisome nights, And wearisome days, Mindful of duty, — Unmindful of praise — In the gloom of the dungeon, Upon the cold ground, By the sick and the dying, There was she found. Oh many a sight She looked upon there, Of sickness and death, Of sorrow and care : Like Aaron she stood, 'Twixt the living and dead, A stranger to doubting A stranger to dread ;- A Handmaid of Heaven, By charity sent, — Scattering blessings, Wherever she went. The feelings of woman, The courage of man, Gave love and decision To every plan. Nations of Europe Are shrouded in gloom ; All creeds and all classes, Weep over her tomb ! Wm. Nicomb. If wisdom's ways you wisely seek, five things observe with care, To whom you speak, of whom you speak, and how, and when, and wliere. $r%s. 5) I. I have a bridge within my heart, Known as the " Bridge of Sighs It stretches from life's sunny part, To where life's darkness lies. And when upon this bridge I stand, To watch life's tide below, Sad thoughts come through the shadowy land, And darken all its flow. Then as it winds its way along To sorrow's bitter sea, mournful is the spirit-song, That upward floats to me. A song which breathes of blessings dead, Of friends and friendships flown : Of pleasures gone — their distant tread Now to an echo grown. And hearing thus, beleaguering fears Soon shut the present out, While bliss but in the past appears, And in the future, doubt. Oh often then will deeper grow The night which round me lies : 1 wish that life had run its flow, Or never found its rise ! 72 Bridges. n. I have a bridge within my heart, Known as the " Bridge of Faith :" It spans, by a mysterious art, The streams of life and death. And when upon this bridge I stand, To watch the tide below, Sweet thoughts come from a sunny land, And brighten all its flow. Then, as it winds its way along, Toward a distant sea, Oh pleasant is the spirit-song, That upward floats to me A song of blessings never sere— Of love " beyond compare," Of pleasures flowed from troublings here, To rise serenely there. And hearing thus — a peace divine Soon shuts each sorrow out ; And all is hopeful and benign, Where all was fear and doubt. Oh often then will brighter grow The light which round me lies I see, from life's beclouded flow, A crystal stream arise. Awa/MKEj? ayj-a/M swtnw. cmMfffL €p ■jfitwtnlmi of %>tw. Greater than the divinity that doth hedge a king, is the divinity that encompasses the righteous man, and the righteous people. The flowers of prosperity smiled in the blessed foot- prints of William Penn. His people were unmolested and happy, while, (sad but true contrast!) those of other colonies, acting upon the policy of the world, building forts, and showing themselves in arms, not after receiving provocation, but merely in the anticipation, or from the fear of insults or danger, — were harrassed by perpetual alarms, and pierced by the sharp arrows of savage war. This pattern of a Christian Commonwealth never fails to arrest the admiration of all who contemplate its beauties. It drew an epigram of eulogy from the caustic pen of Voltaire, and has been fondly painted by many virtuous his- torians. Every ingenuous soul, in our day, offers his willing tribute to those celestial graces of justice and humanity, by the side of which the flinty hardness of the pilgrims of Plymouth Rock, seems earthly and coarse. But let us not confine our- selves to barren words, in recognition of virtue. While we see the right and approve it, too, let us dare to pursue it. Let us now, in this age of civilization, surrounded by Christian nations, be willing to follow the succesful example of William Penn, surrounded by savages. Let us, while we recognise those transcendant ordinances of God, the law of Right and the law of Love, — the double suns which illuminate the moral universe, — aspire to the true glory, and, what is higher than glory, the great good of taking the lead in the disarming of the nations. Let us abandon the system of preparation for war, in time of peace, as irrational, unchristian, vainly prodigal of expense, and having a direct tendency to excite the very evil ag'v^st which it professes to guard. Let the enormous means thus released from iron hands, be devoted to labours beneficent. 73 74 The Preservation of Peace. Our battlements shall "be schools, hospitals, colleges and churches : our arsenals shall be libraries : our navy shall be peaceful ships, on errands of perpetual commerce : our army- shall be the teachers of youth, and the ministers of religion. This is, indeed, the cheap defence of nations. In such in- trenchments, what christian soul can be touched with fear? Angels of the Lord shall throw over the land an invisible, but impenetrable panoply ; — " Or if virtue feeble were Heaven itself would stoop to her." At the thought of such a change in policy, the imagination loses itself in the vain effort to follow the various streams of happiness, which gush forth as from a thousand hills. — Then shall the naked be clothed, and the hungry fed. Institutions of science and learning shall crown every hill-top : hospitals for the sick, and retreats for the unfortunate children of the world, — for all who suffer in any way, in mind, in body or estate, — shall nestle in every valley : while the spires of new churches shall leap exulting to the skies. The whole land shall bear witness to the change : — art shall confess it in the new inspiration of the canvass and the marble : the harp of the poet shall proclaim it in a loftier rhyme. Above all, the heart of man shall bear witness to it, in the elevation of his affec- tions, in his devotion to the highest truth, in his appreciation of true greatness. The eagle of our country, without the terror of his beak, and dropping the forceful thunderbolt from his pounces, shall soar with the olive of peace, into untried realms of ether, nearer to the sun. Charles Sumner. All true spiritual and moral greatness roots itself in sim- plicity, humility and love. Bioa. Neander. passing rnibr i|je Hob. BY M. S. B. DANA. I SAW the young bride, in her beauty and pride, Bedecked in her snowy array, And the bright flush of joy mantled high on her cheek, And the future looked blooming and gay. And with woman's devotion she laid her fond heart At the shrine of idolatrous love : And she anchored her hopes to this perishing earth By the chain which her tenderness wove. But I saw, when those heart-strings were bleeding and torn 3 And the chain had been severed in two : She had changed her white robes for the sables of grief, And her bloom to the paleness of woe. Yet the Healer was there, pouring balm on her heart, And wiping the tears from her eyes, And He strengthened the chain he had severed in twain, And fastened it firm to the skies. There had whispered a voice — 'twas the voice of her God — " I love thee, I love thee, — pass under the rod." I saw the young mother in tenderness bend O'er the couch of her slumbering boy, And she kissed the soft lips as he murmured her name While the dreamer lay smiling in joy. sweet as the rose-bud encircled with dew, When its fragrance is flung on the air, So fresh and so bright to the mother he seemed, As he lay in his innocence there ! But I saw, when she gazed on the same lovely form, Pale as marble, and silent and cold j But paler and colder her beautiful boy, And the tale of her sorrow was told. 75 76 Passing* under the Rod. Yet the Healer was there who had smitten her heart, And taken her treasure away ; To allure her to heaven he has placed it on high, And the mourner will sweetly obey. There had whispered a voice — 'twas the voice of her God — I love thee, I love thee, — pass under the rod!" I saw, when a father and mother had leaned, On the arms of a dear cherished son, And the star of the future grew bright in their gaze, As they saw the proud place he had won : And the fast-coming evening of life promised fair, And its pathway grew smooth to the feet, And the star-light of love glimmered bright in the air, And the whispers of fancy were sweet : But I saw, when they stood bending low o'er the grave, Where their heart's dearest hope had been laid, And the star had gone down in the darkness of night, And joy from their bosoms had fled : Yet the Healer was there, and his arms were around, And he led them with tenderest care, And he showed them a star in the bright upper world \ 'Twas their star shining brilliantly there ! They had each heard a voice— 'twas the voice of their God, " I love thee, I love theel pass under the rod !" The mind which does not converse with itself, is an idle wanderer : and all the learning in the world is fruitless and misemployed, whilst in the midst of his boasted knowledge, a man continues in profound ignorance of that, which, in point both of duty and advantage, he is most concerned to know. T. A. Kempis. Sfo[m Boraarb. Over Europe the name of Howard is accepted as a synonym of all that is exalted in action, and disinterested in motive. Honoured in his own day, Time has but hallowed his memory, and made clear the extent of the world's loss. His life is fruitful in lessons of wisdom. The silent record of great deeds preaches trumpet-tongued to the man of wealth and influence : it startles him with the consciousness of his own shortcomings, and shows him what achievements are possible to men, earnest and devout. In these times, too, sordid and selfish as they grow, the history of such an one is needed to quicken our faith in disinterestedness, and show us to what humanity has attained and can attain. Howard is supposed, for some mystery seems to hang over the fact, to have been born in the year 1726. His father, a strong- minded Puritan, had earned considerable wealth as a merchant, and retired from business about the time of his son's birth. Contrary to the supposition we should have been led to enter- tain from the tone of Howard's life, a mother's love and watchfulness was denied him. At school he was a dunce, and at no period could he have been termed a scholar. Dr. Atkin has sufficiently established the fact, though Dixon, in his enthusiasm, would supply this supposed necessary to perfection. Though born to the inheritance of a large estate, he served a considerable time as an apprentice in a Watling-street ware- house, and not until the death of his father in 1782, was business forsaken. The first notable incident in his career is his- singular marriage. While living in lodgings in Stoke Newington, he experienced a very severe attack of illness, his life being almost despaired of. During the whole period of his sickness, his landlady, with the natural instinct of a woman's heart, tended him with judicious care and eased his sufferings 78 John Howard. by her womanly attention. On the recovery of the patient, he, in gratitude married her ! — the good lady's protests notwithstand- ing. The bridegroom was five and twenty years of age, the bride fifty-two ! The union was short, but neither party had occasion to regret the contract. She died in the third year of her marriage, deeply lamented by her youthful lord. Although the great work of his life had not yet commenced, the desire for action seized upon him, and hearing of the sufferings of the poor of Lisbon, caused by the terrible earthquake of 1758, he hastened to their assistance. France and England were then at war, the ship in which he sailed was carried into Brest and the prisoners treated with the utmost barbarity. Here, probably, the idea of his mission was first awakened. After a short term of imprisonment, an exchange of prisoners was effected, and the young philanthropist retired quietly to his small patrimonial estate at Cardington, near Bedford, having first effected the re- lease of his fellow captives. After the lapse of three years he again married. Henrietta Leeds was a being worthy of the passionate devotion with which she was regarded by her husband. — Howard loved her with all the fervour of his soul, and when she died, he seemed for a while, in the intensity of his grief, to be lost to outward scenes. The day of her death was held sacred in his calendar : kept evermore as a day of fasting and humilia- tion. The desolate home was now intolerable, and Howard left for Italy and Germany. The deeply religious tone of his mind here becomes apparent. Religion dwelt within him as the all- vivifying principle. It gave the direction and colour to every impulse and act of his life. We must hurry over many important parts of Howard's career. In 1773, although a rigid Dissenter, he was nominated to fill the office of Sheriff of Bedford : the " prison-world" was opened to him ; and he girded up his loins for the steep and rugged road he was hereafter to tread. The prison at Bedford, glori- fied by the long captivity of Bunyan, was a fitting scene for the John Howard. 79 inauguration of Howard in his new function. Towards the close of the year 1773 he began his tours of inspection, and was gradually led on to extend them into the nearer counties, then into the neighbouring kingdoms of the British empire— then over the greater part of Europe, and, finally to other portions of the globe. We will not stay here to describe the fearful state of the prisons in England at the commencement of his career. Let it suffice to say. that prisoners were confined in the most loath- some places, and treated with horrible cruelty. A man might be left to die of starvation in a goal for not being guilty of his crime — if unable to pay certain exorbitant fees. The criminal code was written in blood. A man might be hanged for steal- ing a hop-band in a garden at Kent, or purloining an old coat of the value of five shillings in Middlesex. And this was in the age of Pitt and Fox, of Burke and Sheridan and Paley ! On the conclusion of Howard's rapid survey of the prisons of his country, the House of Commons resolved itself into a com- mittee of the whole House, to cite him to its bar, to hear his report, and examine him thereupon. On the House resuming, the chairman, at the instance of the committee, moved, — " That John Howard, Esq., be called to the bar, and that Mr. Speaker do acquaint him that the House are very sensible of the human- ity and zeal which have led him to visit the several gaols of this kingdom, and to communicate to the House the interesting ob- servations which he has made upon that subject." He was ac- cordingly called for, and in the name of the supreme Legislature of his country, thanked for his philanthropic exertions — " an honour seldom accorded by that body to other than the ministers of war and conquest. One of the members, surprised at the extent and minuteness of his inspections, requested to be in- formed " at whose expense he travelled." " A question to which," Dr. Aikin says, " he could hardly reply, without ex- pressing some indignant emotion." His hand had now been put to the plough, and his life was 80 John Howard. devoted evermore to the alleviation of human woe. He penetrated into every dark nook and corner of the kingdom. Nothing was too obscure to escape his vigilance. Every prison, compter, or spunging-house, every hole into which unfortunate beings could be thrust, he considered worthy of his attention. At length in 1774, Parliament, roused by his remonstrance to some sense of its duty, passed two bills " for the better Regulation of Prisons," one of which abolished all fees, and gave the prisoner his dis- charge directly he was acquitted ; and another which provided for the whitewashing, cleansing and ventilation of prisons, for the establishment of infirmaries, and for the erection of dungeons in which even offenders might live. Howard was ill in bed when these bills were passed ; on his recovery, he revisited the goals to see that the acts were duly enforced. In the following year he proceeded to the continent. He found such of the prisons in France as he was allowed to enter, in a much better condition than those of his own country. He visited successively? Belgium, Holland, and Germany ; in many respects he found " correctional science," as Dixon calls it, more advanced than in England. The prisoners were mostly employed, while ours were simply confined and starved. On returning home he revisited many of the English prisons, and then left for Switzer- land, where also he found prison discipline somewhat under- stood. After proceeding to Germany and Holland, he came back to his own country, still more profoundly impressed with the superiority of the continental nations generally, over our own, in this important matter. He had now collected such a mass of materials as no human being had ever gathered on the same subject, and he gave to the world his great work on the " State of Prisons" — The work, previous to its publication, was submitted to the criticism of the author's dearest friends. Dr. Price and Dr. Aikin. When it first appeared, it created an ex- traordinary sensation : — " The fame of its author's labours — his disinterestedness — the John Howard. 81 purity of his motives in undertaking such a missionaryship— the courage and devotion with which he had executed it — the sub- lime confidence in which he had penetrated dark and pestilen- tial dungeons, in order to carry thereinto light and hope, and to bring the fearful secrets of the prison-house before the world — also, some intimation of the sterling worth and originality of his private character, had reached, through various channels, the knowledge of his countrymen ; and there was consequently a strong desire on the part of the public to follow his fortunes more minutely, and to trace the lines of his apostleship from his own hand. The interest here indicated was, however, chiefly of a personal or biographical nature, and such as would have at- tached to the record of any other series of striking adventures. Many others, though not so large a multitude perhaps, felt a deep interest in the subjects of his inquiries ; and there would necessarily be many whose curiosity would be excited by the Philanthropist's examination before the House of Commons, and the vote of thanks which that body had so publicly and honourably offered him for his valuable communications to it. Expectation was then generally and highly raised ; nor, on the publication of the work, was it at all disappointed. The critical reviews of the day received it with great favour, and welcomed it with that most flattering of all receptions from such authorities — an ample share of notice, comment, and criticism. One and all, they bore the highest testimony to its author's commanding merits. The reading world — it was rather a limited one then compared with what it is now — appears also to have perused its contents with universal satisfaction and admiration. The meed of praise, of acknowledgment, was without stint or reservation — was free and full, as it was richly merited." We can only indicate the course of his future career. His reputation rapidly spread over Europe ; and on his third tour he was received in Holland, Prussia, and Austria, with the most distinguished honours. On reaching home after this tour, he 82 John Howard. undertook his longest and most laborious home-journey, traver- sing almost every county in England, Ireland, and Scotland. His inspection satisfied him as to the utility of his labours. Some of the more flagrant abuses which he had formerly noted had been removed, the gaols were almost universally cleaner, more orderly, and healthier. His thoughts again turned to the continent; there were yet vast regions unexplored : Denmark, Norway, Russia, Poland, Turkey, Egypt, Spain, and Portugal, u beckoned him to their cities ;" and in 1781 he departed for the extreme North. On his return, he gave the entire results of his inspection to the public, in a second Appendix to his work. Twelve years had now passed since he had commenced, in the cell of John Bunyan, that gigantic labour that has rendered his name immortal. During these twelve years he had traversed every country on the continent, with the exception of Turkey • had visited, and minutely inspected, the gaols of all their capi- tals and principal cities ; had travelled upwards of forty thous- and miles, and had expended upon these travels, or in relieving the sick and giving freedom to the captive, more than .£30,000. While resting at his favourite estate of Cardington, that terrible destroyer, the plague, was perpetually in his thoughts. In 1785, although sixty years of age, he again quitted his native shores, with a view to discover some remedy for this foe of humanity. He visited the Lazaretto at Marseilles, and while the plague was raging, took his passage from Smyrna to the Adriatic in an infected vessel, with a foul bill of health, in order to be subjected to the strictest quarantine ! His sufferings were fear- ful ; and to add to his pangs, news came to him while in this horrible plague-ship, that his son, after a wild career of dissipa- tion, had become insane ! When the father returned, he found his son an incurable maniac. Thus bereft of every tie which could bind him to his home, on the 5th of July, 1779, he took another, his last journey, feel- ing convinced that it would be his last. His intention was to visit John Howard. 83 Ptussia, Turkey, and other countries, for the purpose of extend- ing his inquiries respecting the plague. At Chtrson,he caught a virulent fever, taken while visiting a lady on the point of death ; and here, far from home and friends, as calm and dig- nified as the heathen sage, and with a more blessed assurance and support, this faithful and devoted labourer departed from the scene of his labours, with a goodly sheaf of noble deeds to present to the Lord of the Harvest. — " There is a spot," said he to one at his bedside, " near the village of Dauphiney, that would suit me nicely. You know it well, for I have often said that I should like to be buried there ; and let me beg of you, as you value your old friend, not to suffer any pomp to be used at my funeral, nor let any monument nor monumental inscription whatsoever be made, to mark where I am laid ; but lay me quietly in the earth, place a sun-dial over my grave, and let me be forgotten." While wavering between life and death, a letter from England was put in his hands, giving a favourable account of the health of his son. Like an angel of mercy sent from Heaven, this came to the dying man ; giving the letter to a friend, he said, tenderly, — " Is not this a comfort for a dying father ?" and in a few seconds the Christian patriach was with his God. " He lived an apostle," said Bentham " and died a martyr." THE FUNERAL OF HOWARD. His death fell on the mind of Europe like an ominous shadow : the melancholy wail of grief which arose on the Dnieper, was echoed from the Thames, and soon re-echoed from the Tagus, and the Neva, and the Dardanelles. Everywhere Howard had friends — more than could be thought till death cut off restraint, and threw the flood-gates of sympathy wide open. Then the affluent tide rolled in like the dawn of a summer day. Cherson went into deep mourning for the illustrious stranger ; and there was 84 John Howard. hardly a person in the province who was not greatly affected on learning that he had chosen to fix his final resting-place on the Russian soil. In defiance of his own wishes on the subject, the enthusiasm of the people improvised a public funeral. The Prince of Moldavia, Admirals Priestman and Mordvinoff, all the generals and staff officers of the garrison, the whole body of the magistrates and merchants of the province, and a large party of cavalry, accompanied by an immense cavalcade of private persons, formed the funeral procession. Nor was the grief by any means confined to the higher orders. In the wake of the more stately band of mourners, followed on foot a concourse of at least three thousand persons — slaves, prisoners, sailors, sol- diers, peasants — men whose best and most devoted friend the hero of these martial honours had ever been ; and from this after, humbler train of followers, arose the truest, tenderest expres- sion of respect and sorrow for the dead. When the funeral pomp was over, the remains of their benefactor lowered into the earth, and the proud procession of the great had moved away — then would these simple children of the soil steal noiselessly to the edge of the deep grave, and with their hearts full of grief, whisper in low voices to each other of all that they had seen and known of the good stranger's acts of charity and kindness. Good in- deed he had been to them. Little used to acts or words of love from their own lords, they had felt the power of his kind man- ner, his tender devotion to them, only the more deeply from its novelty. To them how irreparable the loss ! The higher ranks had lost the grace of a benignant presence in their high circle ; but they — the poor, the friendless — had lost in him their friend — almost their father. Nature is ever true : they felt how much that grave had robbed them of. Not a dry eye was seen amongst them ; and looking sadly down into the hole where all that now remained of their physician lay, they marvelled much why he, a stranger to them, had left his home and friends and country, to become the unpaid servant of the poor in a land so far away ; John Howard. 85 and not knowing how, in their simple hearts, to account for this, they silently dropped their tears into his grave, and slowly moved away — wondering at all that they had seen and known of him who was now dead, and thinking sadly of the long, long time ere they might find another friend like him ! The hole was then filled up — and what had once been Howard was seen of man no more. A small pyramid was raised above the spot, instead of the sun-dial which he had himself sug- gested ; and the casual traveller in Russian Tartary is still at- tracted to the place as to one of the holiest shrines of which this earth can boast. A few of Howard's characteristics may be mentioned. He was naturally somewhat of a haughty temperament, plain and blunt in his manners, often apparently harsh, — but under this exterior was a heart as tender as a child's, — like the eider-down on the eagle's breast. With his second and darling wife he stipulated, previous to marriage, that in all matters in which there should be a difference of opinion between them, his voice should be the rule. Petty tyrants quailed before an eye as stern as it was mild. He spoke out as boldly to the king under the gilded roof of the palace as to the gaoler in the loathsome cell. The imperious Catherine of Russia invited him, when in St. Petersburg, to court : he told the courtiers who waited on him that " he had devoted himself to the task of visiting the dungeon of the captive and the abode of the wretched, not the palaces and courts of kings and empresses, and that the limited time at his disposal would not permit his calling on her imperial majes- ty." He peremptorily refused to meet the Austrian Emperor un- less the servile custom of approaching the sovereign on bended knees was, in his case, dispensed with. The unfortunate Pope Pius VI., earnestly requested an interview, which the stern Puritan and Republican would only consent to, on the condi- tion that the absurd mark of homage, kissing the foot, and, in- deed, every other species of ceremony, should be dispensed with. 86 John Howard. At parting, the venerable pontiff laid his hand upon the head of the heretic, saying, good humouredly, " I know you English- men care nothing for these things, but the blessing of an old man can do you no harm." — His countenance inspired respect and awe. In one of the military prisons in London, an alarm- ing riot took place, the infuriated prisoners, two hundred in number, broke loose, killed two of their keepers, and committed other excesses. Having obtained possession of the building, no one dared to approach them. Unarmed and alone Howard en- tered the prison, charmed the savage passions of the furious mutineers into submission, and they suffered themselves to be quietly conducted back to their cells. Cleanliness and temper- ance, he was wont to say, were his preservatives against conta- gious diseases. He ate no flesh, drank no wine or spirits, bathed in cold water daily — ate little, and that at fixed intervals — re- tired to bed early, and was an early riser. " Trusting in Divine Providence," he says, " and believing myself in the way of my duty, I visit the most noxious cells, and while thus employed, * I fear no evil.' " Burke says : — tc Howard has visited all Europe — not to survey the sumptuousness of palaces, or the stateliness of temples : not to make accurate measurements of the remains of ancient grandeur, nor to form a scale of the curiosities of modern art : nor to col- lect medals or collate manuscripts : but to dive into the depths of dungeons, to plunge into the infection of hospitals ; to survey the mansions of sorrow and pain : to take the guage and dimen- sions of misery, depression and contempt : to remember the for- gotten, to attend to the neglected, to visit the forsaken, and compare and collate the distresses of all men in all countries. His plan is original : it is as full of genius as of humanity. It was a voyage of discovery : a circumnavigation of charity. Already the benefit of his labour is felt more or less in every country.' Dixon. Napoleon 1 * Celegra^ on Moiit-Jlimlrr. " In my rambles about Paris, during- the days of Napoleon, my steps always turned, at the beginning 1 or end thereof, towards Mont-Martre, and mg eyes always to the telegraph on its summit. I constantly found a num- ber of people lingering there, watching, like myself, the movements of the machine, which had sent out so many awful messages in its time. It was of course especially busy, during the fatal campaigns of the great King War- rior. Its perfect stillness until it began its communications, and then its sudden, various and eccentric movements, of which no cause could be dis- covered, and whose purpose was a secret of state, made it to me and to thous- ands of others, the most singular, and perhaps the most anxious of all con templations, at a period when every act of the government shook Europe." I see thee standing on thy height. A form of mystery and might ; Tossing thy arms with sudden swing, — Thou strange, uncouth and shapeless thing ! Like the bare pinions of some monstrous bird, Or skeleton, by its own spirit stirred. Now to thy long lank sides they fall, And thou art but a pillar tall, Standing against the deep blue sky ! Then in an instant out they fly, Making arc, triangle, then curve and square — A thousand mad caprices in the air. And wast thou but a toy of state ? Thou wast an oracle — a fate ! In thy deep silence was a voice ! And well might all earth's Kings rejoice, Thou lone wild herald of earth's wildest will, In the glad hour when thou at last wert still. 87 Napoleon's Telegraph on Mont-Martre. All eyes upon thy tossings gazed, Asking what city bled or blazed ; All conscious that thy mystic freight, Was fierce ambition, — tyrant hate : Darting like flashes from one fiery throne, The secret seen by all — by all unknown. Round the wide world that mandate shot — ■ Embodied thought — and swift as thought, From frozen pole to burning line, The whole vast realm of ruin thine ! Death sweeping over sea, and mount and plain, Wherever man could slay, or man be slain. I saw thee once. The eve was mild, And snow was on the vineyard piled : The forest bent before the gale : And thou, amid the twilight pale, Towering above thy mountain's misty spine, Didst stand, like some old lightning-blasted pine. But evil instinct seemed to fill Thy ghostly form. With sudden thrill I saw thee fling thine arms on high, As if in challenge to the sky Aye, all its tempests, — all its fires were tame, To thy fierce flight — thy words of more than flame ! The thunderbolt was launched that hour — Berlin — that smote thy royal tower ! That sign the living deluge rolled, By Poland's dying groan foretold : One rising sun — one bloody setting shone, And dust and ashes were on Frederick's throne ' Napoleon's Telegraph on Mont-Martre. 89 Talk of the necromancer's spell ? In forests depths — in magic cell, Was never raised so fierce a storm, As when thy solitary form Into the troubled air its wild spells hurled — Thou sullen shaker of a weary world ! I saw thee once again. 'Twas morn : Sweet airs from summer fields were borne — The sun was in the laughing sky : I saw thy startling limbs outfly — And felt that in that hour I saw the birth Of some new curse that might have clouded earth. The soundless curse went forth — it passed — 'Twas answered by the trumpet blast : 'T was answered by the cannon's roar, Pale Danube ! on thy distant shore : That sign of war let loose the iron horde, That crushed in gore the Hapsburg helm and sword. Again I looked. 'T was day's decline — Thy mount was purple with the vine ; The clouds in rosy beauty slept — The birds their softest vespers kept ; The plain all flowers, was one rich painted floor — And thou, wild fiend ! e'en thou wast still once more ! I saw thee from thy slumber start — That blow was, Russia ! to thy heart : That hour the shaft was shot, that rent The curtains of the Tartar tent : That voiceless sign to wolf and vulture cried, Come to your fiercest feast of h-omicide ! M 8* 90 Melancthon. Then swept the sword and blazed the shell — Then armies gave the dying yell : Then burning cities lit the gloom — The groans of Empire in its doom ! Till all was death — then came the final ban — Then Heaven broke down the strength — too strong for man Then earth was calm — I saw thee sleep. Once more I saw thy thin arms sweep — Napoleon's blazing star was wan ! The master of the talisman, Was dungeoned far upon the ocean wave — Thine was the silent tidings of his grave ! Melanrt[rtin. Whoever is accustomed to observe the movements, and to admire the wisdom of a superintending Providence, will not be disposed to attribute this happy event to a happy casualty : but will consider it as the result of a superior and wise arrangement. He will connect it with all its circumstances, and trace it to its consequences. Accustomed to comprehensive views of things, he will not resemble the ignorant rustic that steps across the spring whence a Nile, a Euphrates, or a Ganges originates, without any emotion, and without the capacity to realize those images of grandeur and simplicity that present themselves in a similar situation to the enlightened philosopher ; but he will pause, ponder, compare, and look around him. The Almighty Ruler of the world proceeds in the vast system of his operations in a manner in some respects similar to that which is adopted by every intelligent agent, acting on a small scale. Does the Melancthon. 91 skilful architect prepare his materials for the building he is about to construct, and adapt each stone or ornament to its place with discriminating care ? And is there any improbability in the belief that when the universal agent is about to produce an extraordinary work, he prepares, by a process suited to the purpose, whatever materials are proper for its execution ? Moral operations require moral instruments, and in the whole machinery of circumstances, an intelligent and pious mind will see much to admire. Amidst the error which had accumulated century after century, Grod having to erect the temple of truth, his providence cleared an ample space, chose a variety of workmen, and reared the admirable superstructure. As in the erection of a building there must be different classes of labourers, so it was requisite in rearing this great edifice, to prepare and employ persons variously constituted, but all capable of useful co-operation. In this point of light it becomes us to contemplate the preparatory course of Melancthon's education, the important station he filled, the celebrity he attained at Tubingen, and his removal thence to the scene of his future labours. He was selected by Providence for great purposes, and qualified by a suitable process for the part he was destined to act. His literary fame and his vast acquirements, were not only of essential service, but they were particularly needed, at that precise period when they were ready for public use. Short sighted indeed, or criminally blind must he be, who does not perceive the same superintendence here as in the guidance of Joseph to Egypt, or David to the camp of Saul. If the Reformation claimed the efforts of an exalted courage and an unextinguishable zeal, be it remembered also, that it required no less a proportion of nice discernment and literary skill : if a superstition which invested a mortal with the prerogative of infallibility were to be levelled with the dust, the ignorance which, with its characteristic blindness, supported that superstition, was, at the same time to be dethroned and abolished : — if old abuses were to be removed, and a new order of things 92 Melancthon. to be introduced and systematised, it was desirable to find, not only vigour and resolution to clear away the rubbish of error — but elegance of taste, to clothe unwelcome novelties with attractive beauty : in a word, if existing circumstances called for a Martin Luther, they demanded also a Philip Melancthon ! After long ages of depression, philosophy, literature and theology at length revived. It was impossible that any of them should prosper, during a period in which the human mind was burthened by superstition, and the mental faculties were unable to expand beneath the oppressive weight, while, century after century rolled on, scarcely presenting any thing worthy of the historian to record, or the moralist to admire. At length, a new era arose, which afforded facilities for the circulation of thought, and the comparatively free excercise of public opinion. In proportion as it became possible to express sentiments and announce discoveries in science or religion, without incurring the charge of heresy, and being consigned to perpetual imprison- ment or death, knowledge increased, and truth lifted up her drooping head. The imperfections which usually characterise first discoveries, were indeed apparent ; but the clouds of prejudice, and the mists of ignorance gradually melted away ; objects which were blended together became distinctly visible, and this morning-light of scientific discovery " shone more and more unto the perfect day." Luther said : — " I clear the ground of stumps and roots, thorns and briars : fill up ditches, raise causeways, and smooth the roads through the woods : but to Philip Melancthon it belongs, by the grace of God, to perform a milder and more grateful labour — to build, to plant, to sow, to water, to please by elegance and taste." Melancthon was the pen of the Reformation : when he first heard of Luther's death he exclaimed : " My Father ! My Father ! the chariot of Israel and the horseman thereof." — They were not perfectly agreed, but they were perfectly united. Life op Melancthon. €\)t Christian %Baxfan. " Take up the- Cross and follow me !" Heard ye the call divine ? Soldier, brace on thy panoply ! Advance thy Captain's sign ! Conquering, to conquer, forth He goes : By thy weak arm his might can crush his proudest foes. With Truth's unsullied baldrick girt Upon thy mailed side, The spirit's glaive thy Leader's word, Let virtue's corslet, tried In strife and furnace, guard thy breast, And let Salvation's helm, thy dauntless brow invest. But most upon thy martial Jrm, Take Faith's impervious targe, To quench the fiery shafts of Harm Amid the deadly charge : Then forth on thy victorious way Speed on, thy steps prepared on Love revealed to stay. Sawest thou the waters foaming high ? 'Tis passion's restless sea : Heard'st thou the storm that swept the sky ? 'Tis stern Adversity. Heed not — tread on — the billows cleft, Shall fence with crystal wall, thy right hand and thy left. Sawest thou the broad and arid plain ? No sheltering leaf is there — No fount where scorched and fainting Pain Beneath the sultry glare, 03 94 The Christian Warfare. May slake his lips. Nor fear, nor fly, Heaven's stores shall ope for thee, when earth and wave deny. Greater and mightier far than thou, The hosts that bar thy way : Yet let not that high spirit bow ; A loftier power than they, Conducts thy march : before Him driven, Melts Anak's Titan horde, and rampart walled to Heaven. True, dark ingratitude is there — And disappointment cold, And mean Suspicion from his lair, Unwinds his viper fold : Yet fear not — He whose knight thou art, With energy divine, can nerve thy human heart. True, Earth in treacherous charms arrayed — With eye too wildly sweet, Would seek to her unhallowed shade, To lure thy pilgrim feet : Yet yield not. She who woos thy vows, With crown of bleeding thorn, enwreathed thy Master's brows. Say not thy yoke is hard to bear- But look on Him who bore, For thee a weightier load of care, And then repine no more. His yoke is light : His ways are rest — They that endure with Him, with Him too shall be blest. Fear not, and thou shalt overcome — Yea, through His love, who led : With palm of more than conquest bloom Twine thine unhelmed head. Autumn. 95 Mid white-robed hosts of fair renown, The "morning star" shall shine, first jewel of thy crown ! Fear not ! in victory thou shalt stand — Upon the glassy sea, And chaunt with Heaven's own lyre in ' aand, The paean of the free : Sing to the Lord the fight is done ! The fearful foe is 'whelmed ! the rest eternal, won ! Autumn. The first severe frost has come, and the miraculous change has passed upon the leaves, which is known only in America. The blood-red sugar-maple, with a leaf brighter, more refined and delicate than a Circassian lip, stand here and there in the forest, like the Sultan's standard in a host, the solitary and far- seen autocrat of the wilderness. The Birch, with its amber leaves, ghosts of the departed summer, turned out along the edges of the woods, like a lining of the palest gold. The broad Sycamore, the fan-like Catalpa flaunted their saffron foliage in the sun, spotted with gold, like the wings of the lady-bird : the kingly Oak, with its summit shaken bare, still hid his majestic trunk in a drapery of sumptuous dyes, like a stricken monarch gathering his robes of state about, to die royally in his purple. The tall Poplar, with its minaret of silver, stood blanched like a coward in the dying forest, burthening every breeze with its complainings. The Hickory paled through its enduring green : the bright berries of the Mountain Ash flushed with a more sanguine glory in the unob- 96 Autumn. structed sun. The gaudy Tulip-tree — the Sybarite of vegeta- tion — stripped of its golden cups, still drank the intoxicating light, in leaves, than which, the lip of an Indian shell was never more delicately tinted. The still deeper-dyed Vines of the lavish wilderness, perishing with the noble things whose summer they had shared, outshone them in their decline. And, alone and unsympathising in this universal decay, out- laws from nature, stood the Fir and the Hemlock, their frowning and sombre heads less lovely than ever, in contrast with the death-struck glory of their companions. The dull colours of English autumnal foliage, give you no conception of this marvellous phenomenon : the change there is gradual ; in America it is the work of a night — of a single frost ! Oh, to have seen the sun set on hills in the still green and lingering summer, and to awake in the morning to a scene like this ! It is as if a myriad of rainbows were laced through the tree-tops, — as if the sunsets of a summer's gold purple and crimson had been fused in the Alembic of the West, and poured back, in a new deluge of light and colour, over the wilderness. It is as if every leaf in these countless trees, had been painted to outflush the tulip — as if, by some electric miracle, the dyes of the earth's heart had been struck upward — and her crystals and ores, her sapphires, hyacinths and rubies had let forth their imprisoned colours, to mount through the roots of the forest, reanimating the perishing leaves, and revelling an hour in their bravery. N. P. Willis. Let more than the domestic mill, Be turned by Feeling's river : Let Charity begin at home, But not stay there forever. <&]}t 3Jnltab nf Cajssanbra intiffjmirk. In the following ballad, the author has endeavoured to display the strong enthusiasm of the early Quaker, the short-sighted intolerance of the clergy and magistrates, and that sympathy with the oppressed, which the " com- mon people," when not directly under the control of spiritual despotism, have ever evinced. He is not blind to the extravagance of language and action which characterized some of the pioneers of Quakerism in New England, and which furnished persecution with its solitary but most inadequate excuse. The ballad has its foundation upon a somewhat remarkable event in the history of Puritan intolerance. Two young persons, son and daughter of Lawrence Southwick, of Salem, who had himself been imprisoned and deprived of all his property for having entertained two Quakers at his house, were fined ten pounds each for non-attendance at church, which, they were unable to pay. The case being represented to the General Court, at Boston, that body issued an order which may still be seen on the court records, bearing the signature of Edward Itawson, Secretary, by which the treasurer of the County was " fully empowered to sell the said persons to any of the English nation at Virginia or Barbadoes, to answer said fines." An attempt was made to carry this barbarous order into execution, but no shipmaster was found willing to convey them to the West Indies. Vide Sewall's History, pp. 225-6, G. Bishop. To the God of all sure mercies let my blessing rise to-day, From the scoffer and the cruel he hath plucked the spoil away, — Yea, He who cooled the furnace around the faithful three, And tamed the Chaldean lions, hath set his handmaid free ! Last night I saw the sunset melt through my prison bars, Last night across my damp earth-floor fell the pale gleam of stars ; In the coldness and the darkness all through the long night time, My grated casement whitened with Autumn's early rime. N 9 97 93 The Ballad op Cassandra Southwiok. Alone, in that dark sorrow, hour after hour crept by j Star after star looked palely in and sank adown the sky ; No sound amid night's stillness, save that which seemed to be The dull and heavy beating of the pulses of the sea ; All night I sat unsleeping, for I knew that on the morrow, The ruler and the cruel priest would mock me in my sorrow, Dragged to their place of market, and bargained for, and sold, Like a lamb before the shambles, like a heifer from the fold ! Oh, the weakness of the flesh was there — the shrinking and the shame ; And the low voice of the Tempter like whispers to me came : " Why sit'st thou thus forlornly!" the wicked murmur said, " Damp walls thy bower of beauty, cold earth thy maiden bed! " Where be the smiling faces, and voices soft and sweet, Seen in thy father's dwelling, heard in the pleasant street ? Where be the youths, whose glances the summer Sabbath through Turned tenderly and timidly unto thy father's pew ? " Why sit'st thou here, Cassandra ? — Bethink thee with what mirth Thy happy schoolmates gather around the warm bright hearth ; How the crimson shadows tremble, on foreheads white and fair, On eyes of merry girlhood, half hid in golden hair. " Not for thee the hearth-fire brightens, not for thee kind words are spoken, Not for thee the nuts of Wenham woods by laughing boys are broken, No first-fruits of the orchard within thy lap are laid, For thee no flowers of Autumn the youthful hunters braid. The Ballad of Cassandra Southwick. 99 " Oh ! weak, deluded maiden ! — by crazy fancies led With wild and raving railers an evil path to tread ; To leave a wholesome worship, and teaching pure and sound ; To mate with maniac women, loose-haired and sack-cloth bound. " Mad scoffers of the priesthood, who mock at things divine, Who rail against the pulpit, and holy bread and wiue ; Sore from their cart-tail scourgings, and from the pillory lame, Rejoicing in their wretchedness, and glorying in their shame. " And what a fate awaits thee ? — a sadly toiling slave, Dragging the slowly lengthening chain of bondage to the grave ! Think of thy woman's nature, subdued in hopeless thrall, The easy prey of any, the scoff and scorn of all !" Oh ! — ever as the Tempter spoke, and feeble Nature's fears Wrung drop by drop the scalding flow of unavailing tears, I wrestled down the evil thoughts, and strove in silent prayer, To feel, oh, Helper of the weak ! — that Thou indeed wert there ! I thought of Paul and Silas, within Philippi's cell, And how from Peter's sleeping limbs the prison-shackles fell, Till I seemed to hear the trailing of an angel's robe of white, And to feel a blessed presence invisible to sight. Bless the Lord for all His mercies ! — for the peace and love I felt, Like dew of Hermon's holy hill, upon my spirit melt ; When, " Get behind me, Satan !" was the language of my heart, And I felt the Evil Tempter with all his doubts depart. L.CT l*. 100 The Ballad of Cassandra Southwick. Slow broke the gray cold morning ; again the sunshine fell, Flecked with the shade of bar and grate within my lonely cell ; The hoar frost melted on the wall, and upward from the street Came careless laugh, and idle word, and tread of passing feet At length the heavy bolts fell back, my door was open cast, And slowly at the sheriff's side, up the long street I passed ; I heard the murmur round me, and felt, but dared not see, How, from every door and window, the people gazed on me. And doubt and fear fell on me, shame burned upon my cheek, Swam earth and sky around me, my trembling limbs grew weak ; " Oh, Lord ! support thy handmaid ; and from her soul cast out The fear of man, which brings a snare — the weakness and the doubt." Then the dreary shadows scattered like a cloud in morning's breeze, And a low deep voice within me seemed whispering words like these : " Though thy earth be as the iron, and thy heaven a brazen wall, Trust still His loving kindness whose power is over all." We paused at length, where at my feet the sunlit waters broke On glaring reach of shining beach, and shingly wall of rock ; The merchant's-ships lay idly there, in hard clear lines on high, Tracing with rope and slender spar their net-work on the sky. And there were ancient citizens, cloak-wrapped and grave and cold, And grim and stout sea-captains with faces bronzed and old, The Ballad of Cassandra Southwick. 101 And on his horse, with Rawson, his cruel clerk at hand, Sat dark and haughty Endicott, the ruler of the land. And poisoning with his evil words the ruler's ready car, The priest leaned o'er his saddle, with laugh and scoff and jeer ; It stirred my soul, and from my lips the seal of silence broke, As if through woman's weakness a warning spirit spoke. I cried, " The Lord rebuke thee, thou smiter of the meek, Thou robber of the righteous, thou trampler of the weak ! Go light the dark, cold hearth-stones — go turn the prison lock Of the poor hearts thou'st hunted, — thou wolf amid the flock !" Dark lowered the brows of Endicott, and with a deeper red O'er Rawson's wine-empurpled cheek the flush of anger spread ; " Good people," quoth the white-lipped priest, " heed not her words so wild, Her Master speaks within her — the Devil owns his child !" But gray heads shook, and young brows knit, the while the sheriff read That law the wicked rulers against the poor have made, Who to their house of Rimmon an idle priesthood bring No bended knee of worship, nor gainful offering. Then to the stout sea-captains the sheriff turning said : Which of ye, worthy seamen, will take this Quaker maid ? In the Isle of fair Barbadoes, or on Virginia's shore, You may hold her at a higher price than Indian girl or Moor." Grim and silent stood the captains : and when again he cried, Ci Speak out, my worthy seamen !" — no voice or sign replied ; 102 The Ballad or Cassandra Southwick. But I felt a hard hand press my own, and kind words met my ear : " God bless thee, and preserve thee, my gentle girl and dear !" A weight seemed lifted from my heart, — a pitying friend was nigh, I felt it in his hard, rough hand, and saw it in his eye ; And when again the sheriff spoke, that voice, so kind to me, Growled back its stormy answer like the roaring of the sea : " Pile my ship with bars of silver — pack with coins of Spanish gold, From keel-piece up to deck-plank, the roomage of her hold, By the living God who made me ! — I would sooner in your bay Sink ship and crew and cargo than bear this child away !" " Well answered, worthy captain, shame on their cruel laws !" Ban through the crowd in murmurs loud the people's just applause. " Like the herdsman of Tekoa, in Israel of old, Shall we see the poor and righteous again for silver sold V 9 I looked on haughty Endicott ; with weapon half way drawn, Swept round the throng his lion glare of bitter hate and scorn ; Fiercely he drew his bridle rein, and turned in silence back, And sneering priest and baffled clerk rode murmuring in his track. Hard after them the sheriff looked, in bitterness of soul ; Thrice smote his staff upon the ground, and crushed his parch- ment roll. " Good friends," he said, " since both have fled, the ruler and the priest, Judge ye, if from their further work I be not well released." The Ballad op Cassandra Southwick. 103 Loud was the cheer -which, full and clear, swept round the silent bay, As, with kind words and kinder looks, he bade me go my way •, For He who turns the courses of the streamlet of the glen, And the river of great waters, had turned the hearts of men. Oh, at that hour the very earth seemed changed beneath my eye, A holier wonder round me rose the blue walls of the sky, A lovelier light on rock and hill, and stream and woodland lay, And softer la,psed on sunnier sands the waters of the bay. Thanksgiving to the Lord of life ! — to Him all praises be, Who from the hands of evil men hath set his handmaid free ; All praise to Him before whose power the mighty are afraid, Who takes the crafty in the snare, which for the poor is laid ! Sing, oh, my soul, rejoicingly, on evening's twilight calm Uplift the loud thanksgiving — pour forth the grateful psalm ; Let all dear hearts with me rejoice, as did the saints of old, When of the Lord's good angel the rescued Peter told. And weep and howl, ye evil priests and mighty men of wrong, The Lord shall smite the proud and lay His hand upon the strong. Woe to the wicked rulers in His avenging hour ! Woe to the wolves who seek the flocks to ravish and devour : But let the humble ones arise, — the poor in heart be glad, And let the mourning ones again with robes of praise be clad, For He w T ho cooled the furnace, and smoothed the stormy wave, And tamed the Chaldean lions, is mighty still to save ! €\u little pilgrim. In a large old house with two kind aunts, The little Marian dwelt, And a happy child she was I ween, For though at times she felt That playmates would be better far, Than either birds or flowers, Yet her kind aunts and story books Soothed many lonely hours. Her favourite haunt in the summer time, Was a large old Apple tree, And oft amid its boughs she sat, With her pet book on her knee. The " Pilgrim's Progress" was its name, And Marian loved it much ; It is indeed a precious book, There are not many such. She read it in her little bed, — And by the winter fire, And in summer in her Apple-tree, As though she ne'er could tire. But unexplained, 'tis just the book To puzzle a young brain, And the poor child had no kind friend, The meaning to explain. For though her aunts were very kind, They were not very wise, They only said, " dont read so child, For sure you'll hurt your eyes !" But Marian still went reading on, And visions strange and wild, Began to fill the little head, Of the lonely dreaming child. 104 The Little Pilgrim. 105 For she thought that Christian and his wife, And all his children too, Had left behind their pleasant home And done what she must do. " I '11 take my Bible," said the child, " And seek the road to Heaven, I '11 try to find the ' wicket gate,' And hope to be forgiven ! I wish my aunts would go with me, But 'tis in vain to ask, They are so deaf, and rather lame, They 'd think it quite a task. No ! I must go alone, I see, And I'll not let them know, Or like poor Christian's friends, they'll say, My dear you must not go ! But I must wait till some grand scheme, Can all their thoughts engage ; And then I '11 leave my pleasant home, And go on Prilgrimage." She had not waited long, before One fine autumnal day, She saw the large old coach arrive, To take her aunts away. " We're going out to spend the day," The two old ladies said, "We mean to visit Mrs. Blair, Poor soul, she 's sick in bed. But Marian you must stay at home, The lady' s ill you see, You can have your dinner if you like ; In the large old Apple-tree. And play in the garden all the day, Quite happy and content." 106 The Little Pilgrim. A few more parting words were said, And off the ladies went. The servants too, were all engaged " The day is come at last," Said Marian, "but oh I wish, My Pilgrimage were past !" She knelt beneath her Apple-tree, And for Grod's assistance pray'd, Then with her basket in her hand, Went forth, the little maid ! Behind the house where Marian dwelt. Far off in the distance lay, A high, steep hill, which the sun at morn, Tinged with its earliest ray. And that Difficulty was its name, The child had often thought ; Toward that hill she turned her head, With hopeful visions fraught. The flowers seemed to welcome her ; 5 Twas a lovely Autumn morn, The little lark sang merrily, Above the waving corn. " Ah, little lark, you sing," she said, " On your early Pilgrimage, I too will sing, for pleasant thoughts, Should now my mind engage." In sweet, clear strains she sung a hymn, And tripp'd lightly on her way, Until a pool of thick, soft mud, Across her pathway lay. " This is the Slough of Despond," she cried, Yet she bravely ventured thro' And safely reached the other side ; But she lost one little shoe ! The Little Pilgrim. 107 On an old gray stone, she sate her down And ate some fruit and bread, Then took her little Bible out, And a cheering Psalm, she read. Then with fresh hope she wander'd on, For many miles away, But she reached the bottom of the hill, Before the close of day. She clamber' d up the steep ascent, Though faint and weary, too j But firmly did our Marian keep, Her purpose still in view. " Pm glad at last the arbour's gone," Said the little tired soul, " Pm sure, I should have laid me down And lost my little roll." On the high hill-top she stands at last, And our weary Pilgrim sees, A porter's lodge of ample size, Half hid by sheltering trees. She clapp'd her hands with joy, and cried, " Oh there's the < Wicket Gate,' And I must seek admittance now, Before it is too late." Gently she knocked ; 'tis answer'd soon, And at the open door, Stands a stout man, and Marian felt, As she never felt before. With tearful eyes, and trembling heart, Flushed cheek, and anxious brow, She said, " I hope you are ' Watchful' sir, I want i Discretion' now !" " Oh yes Pm watchful," said the man, " As a porter ought to be, 108 The Little Pilgrim. I suppose you' ye lost your way, young miss, You' ve lost your shoe, I see !" " Mistress," he cried to his wife, within, " Here' s a young child at our door, You' 11 never see such an one again If you live to be fourscore ! She wants discretion too, she says, Indeed I think it 's true, But I know some who want it more, Who will not own it, too." " Go to the Hall," his wife replied, " And take the child with you, The ladies there are all so wise, They '11 soon know what to do !" The man complied, and led the child, Through many a flowery glade : « Is that the < Palace Beautiful V " The little wanderer said : " There to the left among the trees ? Why miss, 'tis very grand, Call it a palace if you please, — 'Tis the finest in the land ! Now we be come to the fine old porch, — And the famous marble hall, — Here little lady you must wait, Whilst I the servants call." Tired and sad he left the child, But he quickly re-appeared, And with him, the lady of the house, — Poor Marian's heart was cheer 'd ! — " Sweet little girl," the lady said, In accents soft and kind, " I'm sure you badly want some rest, And rest, you soon shall find." The Little Pilgrim. 109 To a room where three young ladies sate, The child was quickly led " Piety, Prudence, Charity ;" To herself, she softly said. " What is your name, my little dear ?" Said the eldest of the three, Whom Marian, in her secret thought, Had christen'd ( Piety !' " We' 11 send a servant to your friends, How uneasy they must be !" Admiringly they watched the child, For she was passing fair ; — Around her bright and lovely face, Fell waves of auburn hair, And modestly she told her name, With whom she lived, and where. " How did you lose your way, my love ?" She gently raised her head, " I do not think I' ve lost my way," The little Pilgrim said. « This is the < Palace Beautiful !' May I stay here to-night V They smil'd and said, " We' re glad our house, Finds favour in your sight ! Yes, gladly we will lodge you here, For many nights to come." " Thank you," she cried, " but I soon Must seek my Heavenly Home ! The valley of the < Shadow of Death' Is near your house I know." She stopp'd, for she saw with great surprise, Their tears began to flow ! She little thought that mourning dress, Which all the ladies wore, 10 110 The Little Pilgrim. Was for one whom they had dearly loved, And should see on earth no more. Their brother had been called away, Their brightest and their best ! No wonder then that Marian's words. Roused grief in every breast. — Sobs only for awhile were heard, At length, the mother said, " My child, you have reminded us, Of our loved and early dead ! But this you could not know, my dear, And it indeed is true, We all are near to death's dark door, E'en little girls like you !" « Yes," said the timid, trembling child, " I know it must be so ; But ma'am I hope that Piety, May be with me when I go ! And will you show me your < armoury,' When you have time to spare, — I hope you '11 have some small enough For a little girl to wear ?" No more she said, for Piety As Marian called her, cast Her arms around our Pilgrim's neck, " The secret 's out at last ! You puzzled all ;" said Piety, " But now I see you 've read A glorious book, which unexplained Has turned your little head. — Oh ! dearly, when I was a child, I loved that Pilgrim's tale, But then mamma explained it well, And if we can prevail The Little Pilgrim. Ill On your kind aunts, to let you stay Some time with us, my dear, You shall read that book with my mamma, And she will make it clear." Now we '11 return to Marian's home, And see what 's passing there — The servants all had company, And a merry group they were ! They had not missed our Pilgrim long, For they knew she oft would play, In that old garden, with a book, The livelong summer day. " Betty," at last said the housekeeper, " Where can Miss Marian be ? Her dinner was in her basket packed, But sure she '11 come in to tea !" They sought her here, they sought her there, But they could not find the child, And her poor old aunts, when they came home, With grief, were nearly wild. The coachman and the footman too, On different ways were sent, But none thought of the " narrow way," Through which our Pilgrim went. " Perhaps she followed us to town," Poor aunt Rebecca said, " I wish we had not left our home — I fear the child is dead !" So to the town the coachman went, For they knew not what to do, And night came on, when a country boy, Brought Marian's little shoe. With the shoe in her hand, the housekeeper Into the parlour ran, 112 The Little Pilgrim. " Oh ! mistress, this is all that's left, Of poor Miss Marian ! It was found sticking in the mud, Just above Harlem's chase, Poor child ! I fear she's smothered there, For 'tis a frightful place !" Then louder grew the ladies' grief, But soon their hearts were cheered, For a footman grand, with a note in hand, From a distant Hall appeared. Aunt Ruth now read the note and cried, " Oh sister ! all is well, The child is safe at Brooklawn Hall, "With Lady Arundel ! Who wants to keep her for a month, — Why yes, I think she may, Such a friend as Lady Arundel Is not met with every day ! Our compliments and thanks to her When you return, young man, "We '11 call to-morrow at the Hall, And see Miss Marian!" Then came a burst of grateful joy, Which could not be suppressed, And with thankful hearts and many tears, The ladies went to rest. We '11 take a peep at our Pilgrim now, There in her bed lies she ; How blissful were her dreams that night In the arms of Piety ! Oh that happy month at Brooklawn Hall, How soon it passed away ; — Cheerful and good were Marian's friends, And who so kind as they ! The Little Pilgrim. 113 And more than all, while there she staid, They did their best to bring, Their little lamb to that sweet fold Where reigns the Shepherd King ! Yes, many a lesson ne'er forgot, The little Marian learned, And a thoughtful, and a happy child, She, to her home returned. Years rolled away — the scene is changed, — A wife and mother now, Marian has found the " wicket gate," — Herself, and children too. — And oh ! how sweet it is to see, This little Pilgrim band, As on towards their Heavenly Home, They travel hand in hand. When cloudy days fall to their lot, They see a light afar, — The light which shone on Bethlehem's plain, The Pilgrim's guiding star ! And now dear reader, whosoe'er Or wheresoe'er you be, Who ponder on this strange, true tale, Of Marian's history ; If to the flowers of your young hearts, Instruction's dew is given, Oh ! be earnest, as our Marian was, To seek the road to Heaven ! Napoleon said < Let war feed war :' it did so : and Russia spread her table-cloth of snow to receive the fragments of the feast. p 10* Bioframe 6nion. I have sometimes thought, that God, who always respects man's moral freedom, carries on and completes the great work of his salvation, not only by grace, but by position. Let any man read the life of St. Augustine, Xavier, Baxter, George Fox, Henry Martyn, and then say if different circumstances, (a situation for instance, comparatively exempt from privation and toil,) would have developed the same men, the same strength of purpose, the same faith in God, the same purity of life. If this doctrine be true, it throws light and beauty over the broad field of God's providences, and shows us why many have passed to glory through great tribulation. Madame Guion made Faith the foundation of the religious life. While in prison she seemed entirely resigned and happy : there were alternations of feeling undoubtedly. Sometimes darkness and sorrow settled in what may be termed the outside of her system — in her shattered nerves and bleeding sensibili- ties : but faith unchangeable, which always brings God to those who have it, made light and joy in the centre. Wherever she went, the Holy Ghost seemed to attend her. Her life and presence, bearing as it did, a divine signature, constituted a divine announcement. Her sermon was her life — and her eloquent lips only made the application of it. Fenelon now made the acquaintance of Madame Guion, and the circumstance told upon his whole after life. The immense importance of the subject, the correspondence between the doc- trines of a transforming and sanctifying spirituality ; and the deeply felt needs of his own soul : the presence and fervid eloquence of a woman, whose rank, beauty and afflictions could not fail to excite an interest exceeded only by that of her evan- gelical simplicity and sanctity, made a deep impression on the mind of Fenelon. 114 Madame Guion. 115 What was spoken comparatively in secret, was uttered afterward upon the housetops. The voice which was uttered at the foot of the Jura Mountains and the Alps, in the cottages of the poor, and amid the solitary and inaccessible cliffs of the Chartreuse, was repeated from province to province, till it reached the high and public places of Paris. And it was from this time that we find her name associated, either in unison or in opposition, with some of the most distinguished names of France. If the writings of Fenelon, taken in all their relations and all their results, have exerted an influence probably not inferior to those of any other man, it ought not to be concealed nor disguised, that it was a woman's mind, operating upon the mind of their author, from which no small portion of the light which pervades and embellishes them, first proceeded. Bossuet was her opponent. He was Bishop of Meux, and confessedly the head of the French church. And if we estimate him chiefly by his intellectual strength, I think we may well say that he deserved to be so. Possessed of vast learning, and not greater in the amount of his knowledge than he was in the powers which originated and controlled it, he brought to the investigation of religious subjects, whether theological or practical, the combined lights and ornaments of research, of reasoning, and of rich imagination. The reputa- tion, which might well fill any ordinary amount of secular or of ecclesiastical ambition, was so dear to him, that he had, for many years, as if by the strong instinct of habit, fixed his withering eye on the slightest heretical deviations. He knew well what was going on in France. But he who had broken the spear with the strongest intellects of the world, felt some reluctance to entering the lists with a woman. If such distin- guished men as the Dukes of Beauvilliers and Chevreuse, and more than all, if such a man as Fenelon, on whom the hopes of France had fastened, as its burning and shining light, — had 116 Madame G-uion. come under this influence, to what would these things lead] It seems never to have occurred to him, that the hand of the Lord might be in all this ! He is not wise, who thinks lightly of the influence of a woman who has the great intellectual powers, the accomplished manners, and the serious and deep piety of Madame Guion. But suppose it to have been otherwise. Suppose her to have been fanatical in feeling, and weak in judgment, as her enemies chose to represent her. Is it not true that God has chosen the weak things of this world to confound the mighty ? Has he not declared, and has he not sustained the declaration by the history of spiritual movements in all ages of the world, that he has selected things which are not, to bring to naught things that are ? It was not Madame Guion, but God in her, that produced these results. It was a favourite idea with her, that the all of God — his presence, wisdom and power — dwells, more than anywhere else, in the nothing of the creature. In a letter she says : — " the great majority of those who profess an interest in religious things — those who are religious teachers and guides, as well as those who are seekers of religion, — stop short, and are satisfied with remaining in the outside and surface of things. They ornament and enrich the exterior of the Ark, forgetting that God commanded Moses to begin with the inside and over- lay it with gold, and afterward ornament the outside." Bossuet and Fenelon were now fairly pitted against each other. Bossuet was argumentative and vehement : stronger in the thunders of the law than in the invitations of the Gospel : carrying the intellects and hearts of his hearers, as if by a mighty force. Fenelon, rejecting on principle those arts of authority and of intellectual compulsion, which he felt he had the power to apply, won all hearts by the sweet accents of love. I suppose we may be allowed to say that both were Christians : but one, allied in this respect to the great body of believers stopped in the seventh chapter of Romans, proclaiming, with Madame G-cion. 117 great sincerity — " When I do good, evil is ever present with me." The other, advancing a step further believed, with the declarations of the eighth chapter of the same inspired epistle, — " there is now no condemnation to those who are in Christ Jesus, who walk not after the flesh, but after the spirit." Fenelon wrote to Bossuet — " two things only do I desire : Truth and Peace : — truth which may enlighten, and peace which may unite us." Fenelon did not hesitate to drop his eloquent pen, with which he conversed with all Europe, whenever Providence called him to listen to the imperfect utterance of the most ignorant and degraded among his people. There is, perhaps, not another man in modern times, whose character has so perfectly harmonised in its favour all creeds, nations and parties. His religion expanded his heart to the limits of the world. It was natural, therefore, that the whole human race should love his memory. In the time of the French Ptevolution, when the chains which had been fastened by the tyranny of ages, were rent asunder by infuriated men, who, in freeing themselves from outward tyranny, forgot to free them- selves from the domination of their own passions, the ashes of the great of other days, in the forgetfulness of all just distinc- tions, were scattered by them to the four winds of Heaven. But they wept over and spared the dust of Fenelon. T. C. Upham. He that lacks time to mourn, lacks time to mend ! Eternity mourns that ! 'Tis an ill cure For life's worst ills, to have no time to feel them ! Where sorrow 's held intrusive, and turned out, There wisdom will not enter, nor true power, Nor aught that dignifies humanity. H. Taylor 3feir. I am not musical — I never could Fall into raptures o'er Italian singing. ; " Songs without words" I never understood, Though soft and sweet as " harp of Houri's stringing :" I never ask a lady for a song, (No matter how " divinely" she may sing it) Without a secret hope it won't be long. Unless the poetry has beauty in it. Yet there is music, to whose sound my heart Beats in glad unison — sweet music, filling The soul with joy, though all unschooled by art — Sometimes in melodies low-voiced and thrilling It comes ; and sometimes on the charmed ear Falls in a gush of sweet, wild minstrelsy : Anon its lofty organ tones I hear, Lifting my soul in solemn gladness high. "Would'st hear this music % then go forth in Spring, When nature from her death-like trance is waking : Hear the glad robin and the blue-bird sing ; List the sweet clamour that the brooks are making ; Hark to the whispers of the young leaves, telling That May, sweet May, is come to us once more ; Stand by the lake, where tiny wavelets swelling, Break in melodious chorus on the shore. Would'st hear this music % Listen to the thunder. Mingling its deep voice with the summer rain : Stand mutely gazing, filled with awful wonder, And hear Niagara's loud anthem strain : 118 Music. 119 Or when the winds lift up their voice on high, Swaying the forest branches round and o'er us, Say, in what mood of loftiest ecstacy, Could human genius frame sublimer chorus ? And music dwells, homely indeed, yet sweet, In many a household sound of gentle meaning — The soft quick pattering of tiny feet — The quiet voice that in our childhood's dreaming "We called the wood-worm's song before he died : The cricket's note : the kettle's cheerful humming ; The gentle purring of the cat beside The fire, fresh heaped to wait her master's coming. These, and those softened rural sounds that seem To make the summer stillness only deeper — The cow-bell's tinkle by the distant stream ; The soothing hum that lulls the noontide sleeper The labour-lightening music of the bee : The long-wound horn, the labourer's toil suspending, The voices all of varied melody, In one sweet praiseful concord ever blending. Years may pass over our heads without affording an oppor- tunity for acts of high beneficence, or extensive utility : whereas not a day passes, but in common transactions of life, and especially in the intercourse of domestic society, gentleness finds place for promoting the happiness of others, and for strengthening in ourselves the habit of virtue. There are situations not a few in life, when the encouraging reception, the courteous manner, and the look of sympathy, bring greater relief to the heart, than the most bounteous gift. Pompeii ! disentombed Pompeii ! Here Before me in her pall of ashes spread — Wrenched from the gulf of ages — she whose bier Was the unbowelled mountain, lifts her head Sad, but not silent ! Thrilling in my ear, She tells her tale of horror, till the dread And sudden drama mustering through the air, Seems to rehearse the day of her despair ! Joyful she feasted 'neath her olive tree, Then rose to " dance and play ;" and if a cloud O'ershadowed her thronged circus, who could see The impending deluge brooding in its shroud % On went the games ! mirth and festivity Increased, prevailed : till, rendingly and loud The earth and sky with consentaneous roar, Denounced her doom — that time should be no more. Shook to its centre, the convulsive soil Closed round the flying : Sarno's tortured tide O'erleapt its channel — eager for its spoil ! Thick darkness fell, and wasting far and wide, Wrath opened her dread flood-gates ! Brief the toil And terror of resistance : art supplied No subterfuge ! the pillared crypt, and cave That proffered shelter, proved a living grave ! It seems but yesterday ! Half sculptured there, On the paved Forum wedged, the marble shaft Waits but the workman to resume his care, And reed it by the cunning of his craft. Pompeii. 121 The chips struck from his chisel, fresh and fair, Lie scattered round : the acanthus leaves ingraft The half wrought capital : and Isis' shrine Retains untouched her implements divine. The streets are hollowed by the rolling car In sinuous furrows : there the lava stone Retains, deep grooved, the frequent axle's scar. Here oft the pageant passed, and triumph shone : Here warriors bore the glittering spoils of war, And met the full fair city, smiling on With wreath and pean ! — gay as those who drink The draught of pleasure on destruction's brink. The frescoed wall, the rich mosaic floor, Elaborate, fresh, and garlanded with flowers Of ancient fable : — crypt, — and lintelled door Writ with the name of their last tenant — towers That still in strength aspire, as when they bore Their Roman standard — from the 'whelming showers That formed their grave — return, like spectres risen, To solve the mysteries of their fearful prison ! Dr. W. Beattie. Cowper is dead, but the golden apples are still as fresh, as when newly gathered in the silver baskets of the 'Olney Hymns.' Elliot is dead : but the missionary enterprise is young. Henry Martyn is dead ; but who can count the apostolic spirits, who phoenix-wise, have started from his funeral pile. Howard is dead : but modern philanthropy is only commencing its career. Raikes is dead : but the Sabbath schools go on. Wilber- force is dead : but the negro will find for ages, a protector ia his memory. a 11 Jtntloti. He was one of those uncommon men who are destined to give lustre to their age ; and who do equal honour to human nature by their virtues, and to literature by their superior talents. He was affable in his deportment, and luminous in his discourse : the peculiar qualities of which were a rich, delicate and power- ful imagination : but which never let its power be felt. His eloquence had more of mildness in it than of vehemence : and he triumphed as much by the charms of his conversation, as by the superiority of his talents. He always brought himself to the level of his company : he never entered into disputation : and he sometimes appeared to yield to others at the very time that he was leading them. Grace dwelt upon his lips. He discussed the greatest subjects with facility : the most trifling were ennobled by his pen : and upon the most barren he scattered the flowers of rhetoric. The peculiar, but unaffected mode of expression which he adopted, made many persons believe that he possessed universal knowledge, as if by inspira- tion. It might, indeed, have been almost said, that he rather invented what he knew than learned it. He was always original and creative : imitating no one, and himself inimitable. A noble singularity pervaded his whole person : and a certain undefinable and sublime simplicity gave to his appearance the air of a prophet. Fenelon, who added ardent piety to the highest order of talents, and to the graces of expression and manner which so arrested the attention of the historians and biographers of his times, had formed the purpose, under the inspiration of that great Power who is the life of all holy purposes, to live and act solely for what he deemed the cause of God. His first plan was to go as a missionary to Canada, at that time a province of France ; and which could not possible furnish any 122 Fenelon. 123 attractions to a person of his turn of mind, separate from what are found in religion. In the simplicity and love of his heart, he was willing to spend the splendid powers which God had given him, in instructing a few ignorant savages in the way of life. Disappointed in this, he next turned his attention to Greece ; and he indulged the hope that he might be permitted to preach the gospel in a land which could not fail to be endeared to him by many classical and historical recollections. There is a letter extant, written at this time, which would be interesting if in no other light than as a memorial of the youthful Fenelon, in which the warmth of his heart blends with the vividness of his imagination. It is dated at Sarlot and was probably addressed to Bossuet. " Several trifling events have hitherto prevented my return to Paris : but I shall at length set out, sir, and I shall almost fly thither. But, compared with this journey, I meditate a much greater one. The whole of Greece opens before me ; and the Sultan flies in terror : — the Peloponnesus breathes again in liberty, and the Church of Corinth shall flourish once more : — the voice of the apostle shall be heard there again. I seem to be transported into those enchanting places and those inestima- ble ruins, where, while I collect the most curious relics of antiquity, I imbibe also its spirit. I seek for the Areopagus, where St. Paul declared to the sages of the world the unknown God. I kneel down, Oh happy Patmos ! upon thy earth, and kiss the steps of the apostle : and I shall almost believe that the heavens are opening on my sight. Once more, after a night of such long darkness, the day-spring dawns in Asia. I behold the land which has been sanctified by the steps of Jesus, and crimsoned with his blood. I see it delivered from its profane- ness, and clothed anew in glory. The children of Abraham are once more assembling together from the four quarters of the earth, over which they have been scattered, to acknowledge 124 Fenelon. Christ whom they pierced, and to show forth the Lord's resur- rection to the end of time." In this plan also he was disappointed. It was not the design of Providence to employ him either in Greece or America. There was work for him in France. It was a part of the system of Louis XIV., to establish throughout his dominions an uniformity of religion : and he had the sagacity to see, that, in carrying out this difficult plan, he needed the aid of distinguished men. As a preliminary step to his ultimate purposes, Louis had revoked the edict of Nantes. This edict, promulgated in 1598 by Henry IV., embodied principles of toleration, which furnished for many years a con- siderable degree of protection to the French Protestants. Intoxicated with power, and ignorant of that sacred regard which man owes to the religious rights and principles of his fellow-man, he had commenced, previously to its revocation, a series of hostile acts, entirely inconsistent with the laws and principles of the edict of Henry. The sword was drawn in aid of the church ; blood had already been shed in some places ; and it is stated, that, soon after the revocation of the protecting edict, no less than fifty thousand families, holding their religion more precious to them than worldly prosperity, left France. So desirous was the French monarch of making the Roman Catholic religion the exclusive religion of his kingdom, that he united together different and discordant systems of proselytism, and added the milder methods of persuasion to the argument of the sword. There were men among the Protestants who could never be terrified, but might possibly be convinced. And knowing the tenacity of their opinions, if not the actual strength of their theological positions, he was desirous of send- ing religious teachers among them, who were distinguished for their ability, mildness, and prudence. It was under these circumstances and with these views that he cast his eyes upon the Abbe De Fenelon. Fenelon. 125 The young Abbe waited upon the king. He received from the monarch's lips the commission which indicated the field and the nature of his labours. The labour assigned him was the difficult one of showing to the Protestants, whose property had been pillaged, whose families had been scattered, and whose blood had been shed like water, the truth and excellencies of the religion of their persecutors. Fenelon, who understood the imperious disposition of Louis, and at the same time felt an instinctive aversion to the violent course he was pursuing, saw the difficulty of his position. He consented, however to undertake this trying and almost hopeless embassy, on one condition only; a condition which shows the benevolence of his character, and the soundness of his judgment at this early period of his life : — namely, that the armed force should be removed from the province to which he should he sent as a missionary, and that millitary coercion should cease. At an early period Fenelon had devoted himself to the ministry of Jesus Christ. After he was appointed Archbishop of Cambray, he had but one object, that of benefiting his people. This was particularly the case after he was compelled to relinquish the instruction of the grandchildren of the king, and was confined by the royal order to his own diocese. We do not mean to imply, that he had a more benevolent disposition then, but he had a better opportunity to excercise it. With a heart filled with the love of God, which can never be separated from the love of God's creatures, it was his delight to do good, and especially in the religious sense of the term. In his preaching he was affectionate and eloquent, but still very plain and intelligible. Excluding from his sermons superfluous ornaments as well as obscure and difficult reasonings, he might be said to preach from the heart rather than from the head. He generally preached without notes, but not without premeditation and prayer. It was his custom before he preached, to spend some time in the retirement of his closet ; 11* 126 Fenelon. that lie might be sure that his own heart was filled from the Divine fountain, before he poured it forth upon the people. One great topic of his preaching was the doctrine so dear to him, and for which he had suffered so much, of pure love. He was very temperate in his habits, eating and sleeping but little. He rose early ; and his first hours were devoted to prayer and meditation. His chief amusement, when he found it necessary to relax a little from his arduous toils was that of walking and riding. He loved rural scenes, and it was a great pleasure to him to go out in the midst of them. " The country" he says, in one of his letters, " delights me. In the midst of it, I find God's holy peace." Every thing seemed to him to be full of infinite goodness ; and his heart glowed with the purest happiness, as he escaped from the business and cares which necessarily occupied so much of his time, into the air and the fields, into the flowers and the sunshine of the great Creator. But in a world like this, where it is a first principle of Christi- anity that we should forget ourselves and our own happiness in or- der that we may do good to others, he felt it a duty to make even this sublime pleasure subservient to the claims of benevolence. In these occasional excursions, he could hardly fail to meet with some of the poor peasants in his diocese ; and he carefully improved these opportunities to form a personal acquaintance with them and their families, and to counsel and console them. Sometimes when he met them, he would sit down with them upon the grass ; and inquiring familiarly about the state of their affairs, he gave them kind and suitable advice ; — but above all things, he affectionately recommended to them to seek an interest in the Saviour, and to lead a religious life. He went into their cottages to speak to them of Grod, and to comfort and relieve them under the hardships they suffered. If these poor people when he thus visited them, presented him any refreshments in their unpretending and unpolished manner, The Poor Christian's Death-Bed. 127 he pleased them much by seating himself at their simple table, and partaking cheerfully and thankfully of what was set before him. He showed no false delicacy because they were poor, and because their habitations, in consequence of their poverty, exhibited but little of the conveniences and comforts of those who were more wealthy. In the fullness of his benevolent spirit, which was filled with the love of Christ and of all for whom Christ died, he became in a manner one of them as a brother, or as a father among his children." T. C. Upham. Tread softly — bow the head — In reverent silence bow — No passing bell doth toll, — Yet an immortal soul, Is passing now. Stranger ! however great, With lowly reverence bow : There 's one in that poor shed, — One on that paltry bed, — Greater than thou. Beneath that beggar's roof, Lo ! Death doth keep his state : Enter — no crowds attend — Enter — no guards defend, This palace gate. 128 Waste. That pavement damp and cold No smiling courtiers tread : One silent woman stands, Lifting, with meagre hands, A dying head. No mingling voices sound — ■ An infant wail alone : A sob suppressed — again That short deep gasp, and then The parting groan. Oh ! change — oh ! wondrous change- Burst are the prison bars — This moment — there, so low, So agonised — and now — Beyond the stars ! Oh ! change — stupendous change ! There lies the soulless clod : The Sun eternal breaks — The new Immortal wakes — Wakes with his God ! C. L. Southey. Oh waste thou not the smallest thing, Created by Divinity, For grains of sand the mountains make, And atomies, infinity ! Waste thou not then the smallest time, 'Tis imbecile infirmity — For well thou knowest, if aught thou knowest, That seconds form Eternity ! t fttylt tnlkh dbnnkmi. The nobler instincts of humanity are the same in every age and in every breast. The exalted hopes that have dignified former generations of men, will be renewed as long as the human heart shall throb. The visions of Plato are but revived in the dreams of Sir Thomas More. A spiritual unity binds together every member of the human family : and every heart contains an incorruptible seed, capable of springing up and producing all that man can know of God, and duty, and the soul. An inward voice, uncreated by schools, independent of refinement, opens to the unlettered hind, not less than to the polished scholar, a sure pathway into the enfranchisements of immortal truth. This is the faith of the people called Quakers. Their rise is one of the memorable events in the history of man. It marks the moment when intellectual freedom was claimed unconditionally by the people as an inalienable birth- right. To the masses in that age, all reflection on politics and morals presented itself under a theological form. The Quaker doctrine is philosophy, summoned from the cloister, the college and the saloon, and planted among the most despised of the people. As poetry is older than critics, so philosophy is older than metaphysicians. The mysterious question of the purpose of our being is always before us and within us : and the little child as it begins to prattle, makes inquiries which the pride of learning cannot solve. The method of the solution adopted by the Quakers, was the natural consequence of the origin of their sect. The mind of George Fox had the highest systematic sagacity : and his doctrine, developed and rendered illustrious by Barclay and Penn, was distinguished by its simplicity and unity. The Quaker has but one word The Inner Light, the voice of God in the soul. That light is a reality, and therefore in its freedom the highest revelation of truth : it is kindred R 129 130 TnE People called Quakers. with the Spirit of Grod, and therefore merits dominion as the guide to virtue : it shines in every man's breast, and therefore joins the whole human race in the unity of equal rights. Intellectual freedom, the supremacy of mind, universal enfran- chisement, — these three points include the whole of Quakerism, as far as it belongs to civil history. ********** Others have sought wisdom by consulting the outward world, and, confounding consciousness with reflection, have trusted solely to the senses for the materials of thought : the Quaker placing no dependence on the world of the senses, calls the soul home from its wanderings through the mazes of tradition and the wonders of the visible universe, bidding the vagrant sit down by its own fires to read the divine inscription on the heart. The method of the Quaker coincided with that of Descartes and his disciples, who founded their system on consciousness, and made the human mind the point of departure in philosophy. But Descartes plunged immediately into the confusion of hypothesis, drifting to sea to be wrecked among the barren waves of ontological speculation ; and even Leibnitz, confident in his genius and learning, lost his way among the monads of creation and the pre-established harmonies in this best of all possible worlds ; the Quaker adhered strictly to his method : like the timid navigators of old times, who carefully kept near the shore, he never ventured to sea, except with the certain guidance of the cynosure in the heart. He was consistent, for he set no value on learning acquired in any other way. Tradi- tion cannot enjoin a ceremony, still less establish a doctrine ; historical faith is as the old heavens that are to be wrapped up as a scroll. Far from rejecting Christianity, the Quaker insisted that he alone maintained its primitive simplicity. The skeptic forever vibrated between opinions : the Quaker was fixed even to dogmatism. The infidel rejected religion ; the Quaker cherished it as his life. The scoffer pushed freedom to The Use op Flowers. 131 dissoluteness: the Quaker circumscribed freedom by obedience to truth. George Fox and Voltaire both protested against priestcraft ; Voltaire in behalf of the senses, Fox in behalf of the soul. To the Quakers, Christianity is freedom. And they loved to remember, that the patriarchs were graziers, that the prophets were mechanics and shepherds, that John Baptist, the greatest of envoys, was clad in a rough garment of camels' hair. To them there was joy in the thought, that the brightest image of divinity on earth had been born in a manger, had been reared under the roof of a carpenter, had been content for himself and his guests with no greater luxury than barley loaves and fishes, and that the messengers of his choice had been rustics like themselves. The Inner Light is to the Quaker, not only the revelation of truth, but the guide of life and the oracle of duty. He demands the uniform predomi- nance of the world of thought, over the world of sensation. Thus the doctrine of disinterested virtue, — the doctrine for which Guion was persecuted, and Fenelon disgraced — the doctrine which tyrants condemn as rebellion, and priests as heresy, was cherished by the Quaker as the foundation of morality. Bancroft. i ITbi of fhmts. God might have made the earth bring forth, Enough for great and small, The oak-tree, and the cedar-tree, Without a flower at all. 132 The Use of Flowers. He might have made enough, enough, For every want of ours, For luxury, medicine and toil, And yet have made no flowers. The ore within the mountain mine, Requireth none to grow, Nor does it need the lotus flowers, To make the river flow. The clouds might give abundant rain, The nightly dews might fall, And the herb, that keepeth life in man, Might yet have drank them all. Then wherefore, wherefore were they made, All dyed with rainbow light ; All fashioned with supremest grace, Up-springing day and night % Springing in valleys green and low, And on the mountains high, And in the silent wilderness, Where no one passes by ? Our outward life requires them not, Then wherefore had they birth ? To minister delight to man ! To beautify the earth ! To comfort man — to whisper hope, Whene'er his face is dim : For who so careth for the flowers, Will care much more for him ! Mary Howitt. /aitjffulntss. " See that thou copy no man save in the matter of faithfulness." — William Penx. Listen not, when men shall tell thee, here is work for thee to do ; TJiere, thy field of labour lieth and the good thou should'st pursue : Idle one when all are busy, bound, yet longing to arise, Follow thou no mortal guidance, though it come in prophet guise, While the cloud is on thy spirit and the mist is o'er thy eyes. Not the stars above us shining, in Creation's perfect plan, Have their places marked more surely than the living soul of man ; And the laws are not more changeless, which direct their daily course, Than the lines of light that issue from our being's radiant Source, To restrain the soul's outgoings with an ever gentle force. Watch and wait, and as at Bethel, where of old the dreamer lay, Sleep-bound on his stony pillow, Grod himself will set thy way : Wanderer, without a foothold in illimitable space, With the first step simply taken on thy heaven appointed race, Thou wilt know the noiseless sliding of a stone into its place. Up then, with the break of morning ! while upon thy lifted eyes, Clear before thee, rounds of Duty one above another rise ; 12 133 134 Faithfulness. On the steps let down from heaven, rugged though they seem and hard, Pilgrims from all lands will meet thee, silver-haired and battle scarred, And the young, in meekness lovely, shielded by an angel guard. With a grasp the worldling feels not, by a touch he cannot see, Holy joy their bosoms thrilling, they will greet and welcome thee ; With their hymns of glad thanksgiving, that thy mission is begun, That the Father's kingdom cometh, that His will on earth is done, Mingleth soft thy heart's " Eureka,"— Peace ! The Father's boon is won. God hath many aims to compass, many messages to send, And his instruments are fitted, each to some distinctive end : Earth is full of groaning spirits — hearts that wear a galling chain — Minds, designed for noble uses, bondaged to the lust of gain- Souls, once beautiful in whiteness, crimsoned with corruption's stain. Through earth's wrong, and woe, and evil, sometimes seeing, sometimes blind, Ever must the homeward pathway of the humble Christian wind ; Stooping over sin and sorrow — watching by the couch of pain — Holy promises outpouring, grateful as the summer rain, To the heart whose hope had withered never to revive again. Faithfulness. 135 Dark perplexing questions cross him — meet him as he onward goes ;— Why a God of love and mercy should permit Life's ills and woes? Why the good should strive and differ ? If His love be over all, Why the guiltless and the guilty by the same dread stroke should fall ? Why the haughty arm of power should meek innocence enthrall ? Why with Joy is Sorrow walking, hand in hand and side by side, Sparing not the sad and lowly — breaking in on strength and pride ? Grief and Gladness touch each other — pass each other in the street — Why should trains of sabled mourners young and happy lovers meet, Chilling on their lips the whisper, " Life is good, and Love is sweet !" As the earnest soul advances, step, by step to higher ground, Simple Faith and steady Patience slowly bring the answers round : Then it moves serenely forward, trusting less to Reason's span, Satisfied with Faith's revealings of a broad Paternal plan Which, by mutual dependence, fraternises man and man. Down Existence one is sailing, by fair breezes borne along Trilling on Life's solemn voyage, evermore a merry song ; 136 Faithfulness. What, to him, is that wrapt thinker — wearing out the night in toil, Gleaning, for the thankless Future, from the Past a golden spoil But an idle, useless dreamer, but a cumberer of the soil ? Say we these can never mingle? — soon the student's cheek shall pale, And the o'er-tasked brain shall weary, and the soul-lit eye shall fail : Whose bright face his sick room lighteth, with hope's language all a-glow ? Whose kind hand the hair is smoothing backward from his burning brow % Ah, his careless-hearted neighbour is a gentle brother now. There a proud man coldly gazes on a meek, forgiving face ! Once he loved her — but ambition crept into affection's place ; From her Christian garb unspotted, turns he now his scornful eye, But on his last lowly pillow, when the great man comes to lie, He will long to hear the rustle of her white robe passing by. Thus are God's ways vindicated; and at length we slowly gain, As our needs dispel our blindness, some faint glimpses of the chain Which connects the Earth with Heaven, Bight with Wrong and Good with 111 — Links in one harmonious movement, slowly learn we to fulfill Our appointed march in concert with His manifested will ! E. L. Jr. (Balrarfa from Hfcjpfo |6lntietan] Itjstnns. The obscurity of the times in which he lived, rests over the early character of Copernicus. TVe know not how far favourable circumstances contributed to the development of his genius, or whether, without peculiar advantages, he owes all to an inborn energy. But whatever his intellectual culture, the greatness of his mind could be borrowed from no one ; as of all who had yet lived, he was the earliest to accomplish a task most difficult for man. Feeling, with the intuitive force of the highest genius, that those popular systems of the heavens could not be true, and, at the same time, recognising that the logic or mere reasoning which sustained them was impregnable, he threw from him the weight of ages, and quietly asked whether that fundamental tenet, which asserts that the earth is motion- less, might not be false 1 The effort required to hesitate on a point which all mankind — up to that moment — had undoubtingly believed, and which had now interwoven itself with every mode of thought, was an achievement for the loftiest order of genius. The question being put, it required very superior, but not uncommon talent, to follow it to its conclusions. Indued by that modesty which invaribly characterises minds of the finest texture, this great man — immediately on obtaining sight of the idea which moved him — turned again to the elder philosophers, lest there might be precious relics buried there to inspire and encourage him ; and accordingly, he did find certain hints touching on a simple order of things ; hints, which his correct and discriminating intellect speedily methodized into that system which, in the somewhat hyperbolical language of his successor, Tycho, " moved the earth from its foundations, stopped the revolution of the firmament, made the sun stand still, and subverted the whole ancient order of the universe." What a change must come over the mind, when from the idea s 12* 137 138 Extracts from Xichol's Planetary Systems. that this Earth is the centre around which all things are symmetrically arranged — the body for whose sake the brilliant fret-work of the skies was hung up — we pass to the conception that it is merely one of a small class of orbs attached to the Sun, and by no means the largest of these ; and that those multitudes of Stars, greater than the eye can number, or even the imagination conceive, are globes like the Sun, only lessened by their immeasurable distances, but around which planets may also roll, and all space be thus filled with motion and life ! Doubtless there is here wherewith to stun the self-important, and startle the timid ; and it is not astonishing that demurs arose among believers in the narrow creeds of those days ; but indeed, that mind only can be afraid to look at the Universe as it typifies the greatness of its great Creator, which knows not the comprehensiveness of the glance of an Almighty eye. The love which warms the blue depths of space, holds within it also our microscopic earth, which even in its most microscopic atoms, teems with fine arrangements, so minute and manifold, that man is yet baffled in his ambition to know them all, where the smallest creature that creeps along the ground, has its home, its roof- tree, and its young, its passions, affections, and loves, — where one drop of water swarms with myriads of living beings, each drinking up life and happiness within the sphere of laws that know no caprice, and is exquisitely adapted to its place ! Yes ! Oh reverent adorer, the God of these shining skies, is also the Being who provides the young ravens with their food ! But even the interest of these general views does not incline us to overlook the fine harmony as to minor arrangements which now appeared in the scheme of the Heavens. The two simple motions of the Earth produce our day and year. Revolving on its axis in twenty- four hours, the Earth turns every part of its surface in that period towards the Sun ; whence a regular succession of light and dark- ness : and to a peculiarity connected with its yearly orbitual motion we owe the change of seasons. The source of this most Extracts from Nichol's Planetary Systems. 13f pleasing variety, is in the inclination of the axis around -which the Earth daily rotates to the path or orbit through which it moves annually. The inclination of the axis, to the orbit, causes, the Sun's rays to fall more or less directly on the same part of the Earth, in different parts of its orbit, and hence, the variety of their heating effects. How exquisite the adjustment of our world to such variety ! Think of the action of winter as a season of sleep and refreshment to vegetation, — the bursting of its dormant powers in spring, — its manhood and health in summer, — and in gentle autumn, the time of the sere and yellow leaf! Though observation informs us that there are spheres in which little of this change is seen, and where doubtless, all arrangements are equally beautiful ; we may be pardoned for contemplating with especial interest so much of the course of our own world, and permit our sympathies to flow freely with the poet, who thus opens his fervent, but somewhat pantheistic hymn : " These a9 they change, Almighty Father, These are but the varied God !" On matters of this kind, men feel variously ; I confess that to me the sight of such exquisite adaptation — an adaptation of phenomena mighty and minute, affecting as the seasons do, although mysteriously, not only the death but the birth of hu- man and all animated beings — it does appear that such precision of workmanship and steadfast solemnity of march, are as strong and eloquent proofs of the presence of the Godhead, as those deviations from ordinary agencies which, in the course of providence, the Almighty has thought fit to produce ; and that with a far loftier and more intelligent ardour than that of the Egyptian magician, we may exclaim, as we humbly contemplate, " The finger of God is there." Niagara. FROM THE SPANISH OF JOSE MARIA HEREDIA. My lyre ! give me my lyre ! my bosom feels The glow of inspiration ! Oh, how long Have I been left in darkness, since this light Last visited my brow ! Niagara ! Thou, with thy rushing waters, dost restore The heavenly gift that sorrow took away. Tremendous torrent ! for an instant hush The terrors of thy voice, and cast aside Those wide involving shadows, that my eyes May see the fearful beauty of thy face. I am not all unworthy of thy sight, For, from my very boyhood, have I lov'd, Shunning the meaner track of common minds, To look on Nature in her loftier moods. At the fierce rushing of the hurricane, At the near bursting of the thunderbolt, I have been touched with joy ; and when the sea, Lashed by the wind, hath rock'd my bark, and showed Its yawning caves beneath me, I have loved Its dangers, and the wrath of elements. But never yet the madness of the sea Hath moved me, as thy grandeur moves me now. Thou flowest on in quiet, till thy waves Grow broken midst the rocks ; thy current then Shoots onward, like the irresistible course Of destiny. Ah, terribly they rage ! The hoarse and rapid whirlpools there ! My brain Grows wild, my senses wander, as I gaze Niagara. 141 Upon the hurrying waters, and my sight Vainly would follow, as toward the verge Sweeps the wide torrent — waves innumerable Meet there and madden — waves innumerable Urge on, and overtake the waves before, And disappear in thunder and in foam. They reach — they leap the barrier — the abyss Swallows, insatiable, the sinking waves. A thousand rainbows arch them, and the woods Are deafened with the roar. The violent shock Shatters to vapour the descending sheets. A cloudy whirlwind fills the gulf, and heaves The mighty pyramid of circling mist To Heaven. The solitary hunter near, Pauses with terror, in the forest shades. What seeks my restless eye ? Why are not here, About the jaws of this abyss, the palms ? Ah ! the delicious palms, that on the plains Of my own native Cuba spring, and spread Their thickly foliaged summits to the sun ; And in the breathings of the ocean air, Wave soft beneath the Heaven's unspotted blue. But no, Niagara, thy forest pines Are fitter coronal for thee. The palm, The effeminate myrtle and pale rose, may grow In gardens, and give out their fragrance there, Unmanning him who breathes it : thine it is To do a nobler office. Generous minds Behold thee and are moved, and learn to rise Above earth's frivolous pleasures ; they partake Thy grandeur, at the utterance of thy name. 142 Niagara. God of all truth ! in other lands I 've seen Lying philosophers, blaspheming men, Questioners of thy mysteries ; that draw Their fellows deep into impiety ; And, therefore, doth my spirit seek thy face In earth's majestic solitudes. Even here, My heart doth open all itself to thee. In this immensity of loneliness, I feel thy hand upon me. To my ear, The eternal thunder of the cataract brings Thy voice, and I am humbled as I hear. Dread torrent ! that with wonder and with fear Dost overwhelm the soul of him that looks Upon thee, and dost bear it from itself, Whence hast thou thy beginning ? Who supplies, Age after age, thy unexhausted springs ? What power hath ordered, that, when all thy weight Descends into the deep, the swollen waves Rise not, and roll to overwhelm the earth ? The Lord hath opened his omnipotent hand, Covered thy face with clouds, and given his voice To thy down rushing waters ; he hath girt Thy terrible forehead with his radiant bow. I see thy never resting waters run, And I bethink me how the tide of time Sweeps to eternity. So pass, of man — Pass, like a noon-day dream — the blossoming days, And he awakes to sorrow. I, alas ! Feel that my youth is withered, and my brow Ploughed early with the lines of grief and care. %