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repeating poetry with any degree of propriety. The same practice, when properly directed, helps to refine the imaginátion, and to tráin it to ùseful purposes. That noble pówer has its humbler offices in common lífe, which are of the utmost value. When rightly cúltivated, it teaches us to associate good thoughts and kindly feelings with the ordinary incidents of every-day life. It makes "the best of èvery thing." It has been said to "oil the wheels of life's cháriot on this jolty ròad." It glàddens, by associations of contentment and love, even the poòr man's board with truest festive joy. It adorns his cottage home' with hues of peace and happiness. It makes "the dear familiar fáce "I grow more beautiful with àge. It throws on áll things the glow of a cheerful affectionate mìnd. What teacher will not find even his own mind elevated and refined' while he traces, with his children, the imagery, brightening with every word, of these beautiful línes,

"Triumphal arch that fill'st the sky,

When storms prepare to part,"
&c..

&C.,

&c.

Compiled.

POETRY

[REV. DR. WILLIAM ÉLLERY CHANNING, a celebrated Unitarian Minister, was born in Rhode Island, U.S., in 1780, and died in 1842. Educated at Harvard College, he abandoned the profession of medicine and prepared himself for the Unitarian ministry. His eloquence rendered him one of the most conspicuous men in America. His discourses are beautiful specimens of pulpit eloquence, but they savour more of the oratorical moralist, than the Christian preacher.]

POETRY' is one of the great ínstruments of the refinement and exaltation of society. It lifts the mind' above ordinary life, gives it a respite from depressing cares, and awakens the consciousness of its affinity with what is púre and nòble. In its legitimate and highest efforts' it has the same tendency and aím with Christianity; thát is, to spiritualize our nature. Poetry has a natural allíance' with our best affèctions. It delights in the beauty and sublimity of the outward creation

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and of the soul. It indeed pourtrays with terrible energyl the excesses of the pássions; but they are pássions which show a mighty nàture, which are full of pòwer, which command áwe, and excite a deep though shuddering sympathy. Its great tendency and púrpose! is, to carry the mind' beyond and above the beaten, dùsty, weary wálks of ordinary life; to lift it into a purer élement; and to breathe into it more profound and generous emòtion. It reveals to us' the loveliness of nature, brings back the freshness of youthful feeling, revives the rélish of simple pleasures, keeps unquenched' the enthusiasm which warmed the spring-time of our bèing, refines youthful love, strengthens our interest in human nature by vivid delineations of its ténderest and loftiest feelings, knits us by new ties with universal béing, and, through the brightness of its prophetic vísions, helps faith' to lay hold on the future life.

The présent life' is not wholly prosaic, precise, tàme, and fínite. To the gifted eye, it aboúnds in the poètic. The affections which spread beyond ourselves, and stretch far into futurity; the workings of mighty pássions, which seem to arm the soull with almost superhuman energy; the innocent and irrepressible joy of infancy; the bloòm, and búoyancy, and dazzling hopes of youth; the throbbings of the heart, when it first wakes to love, and dreams of a happiness too vast for earth; woman' with her beaúty, and gráce, and gèntleness, and fulness of feeling, and depth of affection, and her blushes of pùrity, and the tones and looks which only a mother's heart can inspire;-thése' are áll poètical. It is not true! that the poet paints a life which does not exíst; he only extracts and concéntrates, as it were, life's ethereal èssence, arrèsts and condénses its volatile fràgrance, brings together its scattered beaúties, and prolongs its more refined but evanescent joys; and in thís he does wèll; for it is good to feel' that life is not wholly usurped by cares for subsistence and physical gratificátion, but admits, in measures which may be indefinitely enlarged, sentiments and delights! worthy of a higher being. This power of poetry to refine our views of life and happiness, is more and more neededl

as society advances. It is néeded' to withstand the encroachments of heartless and artificial mànners, which make civilization so táme and unìnteresting. It is néeded' to counteract the tendency of physical science, which, being nów sought, not as fòrmerly for intellectual gratification, but for multiplying bodily comforts, requires a new development of imaginátion, tàste, and poetry, to preserve men from sinking into an earthly, matérial, epicurèan life. DR. CHANNING.

BINGEN ON THE RHINE.

A soldier of the Legion' lay dying in Algiers,

There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears;

But a còmrade stood beside him, while his life-blood' ebbed

away,

And bent with pitying glances, to hear what he might sày. The dying soldier' fàltered, as he took that comrade's hand, And he said: "I never mòre shall see my own, my native land:

Take a message and a tòken to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bìngen-at Bingen on the Rhìne.

"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet' and crowd around,

To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bràvely; and when the day was wón,

Full many a corsel lay ghastly pále, beneath the setting sun. And midst the dead and dying were some grown old in

wárs

The death-wound' on their gallant breasts, the last of many

scars;

But some were yoùng, and suddenly beheld life's morn declíne ;

And one had come from Bíngen-fair Bíngen on the Rhine!

BINGEN ON THE RHINE.

73

"Tell my mother! that her òther sons shall comfort her old

áge,

And I' was aye a trùant bird' that thought his home a càge; For my father was a soldier, and, even as a child,

My heart leaped forth to hear him tell' of struggles fierce and wild;

And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hóard, I let them take whate'er they would, but képt my father's sword;

And with boyish love I hùng it where the bright light' used to shíne,

On the cottage wall at Bíngen--calm Bíngen on the Rhine!

"Tell my sister not to weèp for me, and sob with drooping héad,

When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant trèad;

But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and stedfast eye,

For her brother was a sóldier too, and not afraid to dìc.
And if a còmrade' seek her love, I ask her in mỳ náme'
To listen to him kíndly, without regrét or shàme;
And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword
and míne),

For the honour of old Bingen-dèar Bíngen on the Rhine!

“There's another-not a síster; in the happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the mérriment that sparkled in her eye;

Too innocent for cóquetry-too fond for idle scòrning; O friend, I fear the lightest heart' makes sometimes heáviest mourning!

Tèll her the last night of my life' (for cre this moon be risen,

My body will be out of paín-my soúl be out of prison)
I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight'

shíne

On the vine-clad hills of Bíngen-fair Bingen on the Rhine!

"I saw the blue Rhine! sweep alòng; I heàrd, or seemed to

hear,

The German sòngs we used to síng in chórus sweet and clear;

And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,

That echoing chorus' sounded, through the evening calm and still;

And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed with friendly tálk

Down many a path beloved of yóre, and well remembered walk;

And her little hánd lay lightly, confìdingly in míne;

But we'll meet no more at Bíngen-lòved Bingen on the Rhine!"

His voice grew faint and hoarser; his grásp' was childish weak;

His eyes put on a dying lóok; he sighed, and ceased to speak.
His cómrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had flèd,
The soldier of the Légion' in a foreign land was dead!
And the soft moon' rose up slowly, and calmly she looked
downl

On the red sand of the battlefield, with bloody corpses strèwn; Yéal càlmly on that dreadful scéne her pale light' seemed to shíne,

As it shone on distant Bíngen-fair Bíngen on the Rhine! HON. MRS. NORTON.

THE HEROIC SMITH.

[RICHARD NEWTON, an eminent divine, was born in Buckinghamshire in 1676, and died in 1753. He became the principal of Hart Hall in 1710, and was afterwards appointed to a canonry of Christ-church, Oxford. His works are, “University Education," "Pluralities Indefensible," "Sermons," &c.]

THE following circumstance took place about twenty years ago at a village in Germany. One afternoon a great number of the villagers were assembled in the large room of the inn. There was only one door to the room, and that stood

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