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And by The one

Freedom's broad Ægis o'er three million slaves ! Genius, even in its faintest scintillations, is the inShall God forget himself to honor thee?

pired gift of God--a solemn mandate to its owner to Shall justice lie to screen thine ugly sin ?

go forth and labour in his sphere, to keep alive the Shall the eternal laws of truth become

sacred fire among his brethren, which the heavy and Cobwebs to let thy foul oppression through? polluted atmosphere of this world is forever threat. Shall the untiring Vengeance, that pursues, ning to extinguish. Woe to him, if he neglect this Age after age, upon the sinner's track,

mandate-if he hear not its still small voice. Woe Roll back his burning deluge at thy beck?

to him if he turn this inspired gift into the servant Woe! woe! Even now I see thy star drop down, of his evil or ignoble passions; if he offer it at the Waning and pale, its faint disc flecked with blood, shrine of vanity, or if he sell it for a piece of money. That had been set in heaven gloriously,

D'ISPÆLI. To beacon Man to Freedom and to Home! Woe! woe! I hear the loathsome serpent hiss, Trailing, unharmed, its slow and bloated folds The influence of Coleridge, like that of Bentham, O'er the lone ruins of thy Capitol !

extends far beyond those who share in the peculiaI see those outcast millions turned to wolves, rities of his philosophical or religious creed. le That howl and snarl o'er Freedom's gory corse, has been the great awakener in this country of the And lap the ebbing heart's-blood of that Hope, spirit of philosophy, within the bounds of traditionWhich would have made our earth smile back on al opinions. He has been, almost as truly as Benheaven,

tham, “the great questioner of things established :" A happy child upon a happy mother,

By Bentham, beyond all others, men From whose ripe breast it drew the milk of life. have been led to ask themselves, in regard to any

ancient or received opinion, Is it truc? But no, my country! other thoughts than these

Coleridge, what is the meaning of it? Befit a son of thine : serener thoughts

took his stand outside the received opinion, and surBefit the heart which can, unswerved, believe

veyed it as an entire stranger to it: the other, lookThat wrong already feels itself o'ercome,

ed at it from within, and endeavoured to see it with If but one soul have strength to see the right, the eyes of a believer in it; to discover by what apOr one free tongue dare speak it. All mankind

parent facts it was at first suggested, and by what Look, with an anxious flutter of the heart,

appearances it has ever since been rendered credible. To see thee working out thy glorious doom.

* Bentham judged a proposition true or false, Thou shalt not, with a lie upon thy lips,

as it accorded or not with the result of his inquiries; Forever prop up cunning despotisms,

and did not search very curiously into what might And help to strengthen every tyrant's plea,

be meant by the proposition, when it obviously did By striving to make man's deep soul content not mean what he thought true. With a half-truth that feeds it with mere wind.

With Coleridge on the contrary, the very fact that God judgeth us by what we know of right,

any doctrine had been believed by thoughtful men, Rather than what we practise that is wrong, and received by whole nations or generations of Unknowingly; and thou shalt yet be bold

mankind, was a part of the problem to be solved, To stand before Him, with a heart made clean

was one of the phenomena to be accounted for. And By doing that He taught thee how to preach. as Bentham's short and easy method of referring all Thou yet shalt do thy holy errand; yet,

to the selfish interests of aristocracies, or priests, or That little Mayflower, convoyed by the winds lawyers, or some other species of impostors, could And the rude waters to our rocky shore,

not satisfy a man who saw so much farther into the Shall scatter Freedom's seed throughout the world, complexities of human intellect and feelings-he And all the nations of the earth shall come, considered the long or extensive prevalence of any Singing, to share the harvest-home of Truth.

opinion as a presumption that it was not altogether a fallacy; that, to its first authors, at least, it was the result of a struggle to express in words something which had a reality to them, though not perhaps to many of those who have since received the

doctrine as mere tradition. The long duration of a Have you traced the cause and consequence of that belief, he thought, is at least proof positive of an under current of opinion which is slowly, but surely adaptation in it to some portion or other of the husapping the foundations of empires ? Have you man mind; and if on digging down to the root, we heard the low booming of that mighty ocean which do not find, as is generally the case, some truth, we approaches, wave after wave, to break up the dykes shall find some natural want or requirement of huand boundaries of ancient power ?

man nature which the doctrine in question is fitted Mrs. Jameson's Visits and Sketches. to satisfy : among which wants, the instincts of self

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ishness and of credulity have a place, but by no: lamp-light-and be wafted away in perfume and means an exclusive one. Thus, Bentham continu- praise. As surely as the buman thought has power ally missed the truth which is in the traditional opi- to fly abroad over an expanse of a thousand years, nions, and Coleridge, that which is not of them. it has need to rest on that far shore and meditatem But each found much of what the other missed. " where now are the flatteries and vanities, and comCritique on Coleridge's writings. petitions which seemed so important in their duty ?

Where are the ephemeral reputations, the glow-worm

ideas, the gossamer sentiments which the impertiThe true scholar will feel that the richest ro- nent voice of Fashion, pronounced immortal and mance, the noblest fiction that was ever woven, the divine ? The deluge of oblivion has swept over heart and soul of beauty, lies enclosed in human life. them all, while the minds which were really imItself of surpassing value, it is also the richest ma- mortal and divine, are still there, · forever singing terial for his creations.

He must bear his as they shine' in the firmament of thought, and mirshare of the common load. He must work with rored in the deep of ages out of which they rose." men in houses, and not with their names in books.

Literary Lionism. His needs, appetites, talents, affections, accomplishments, are keys that open to him the beautiful mu. We talk of the world, of fate, of chance, and misseum of human life. Why should he read it as an chance, often in a very bad humour. But how much Arabian tale, and not know in his own beating bosom of this world have we seen ?- how much have we its sweet and smart ? Out of love and hatred, out of not seen? How much can-will-we not see for earnings and borrowings and lendings and losses, sheer indolence and blindness? I have seen wonders out of sickness and pain, out of wooing and worship- to-day in this most frivolous and godless of cities, ping, ont of travelling and voting and watching and Berlin. What lives in women whom I found in the caring, out of disgrace and contempt, comes our lowest, grass-grown, neglected, hovels ! How diftuition in the serene and beautiful laws. Let him ferent is every thing among the lower classes from not slur his lesson; let him learn it by heart. Let what the wise in this world have published, printed, him endeavour exactly, bravely, and cheerfully, to read, and believed! God alone knows how much solve the problem of that life which is set before real, simple-minded, sterling honesty and truth He him; and this by punctual action, and not by pro. has sent into the world. Blessed be his name that mises and dreams. Literary Lionism. he has given me eyes to see it.

RAHEL.

open heaven.

I will gladden the human circle in which I live. Many are the thousands who have let the man die I will open my heart to the gospel of life and nature. within them from cowardly care about meat and I will seize hold on the moments, and the good which drink, and a warm, corner in this great asylum of they bring. No friendly glance, no spring breeze, safety, whose gates have ever been thronged by the shall pass over me unenjoyed or unacknowledged. multitude who cannot appreciate the free air and Out of every flower will I suck a drop of honey, and

And many are the hundreds who out of every moment a drop of eternal life. have let the poet die within them, that their complacency may be fed, their vanity intoxicated, and Not till we have patiently studied beauty can we themselves securely harboured in the praise of their safely venture to look at defects, for not till then immediate neighbours. Few, very few are there can we do it in that spirit of earnest love which gives who, « noble in reason," and conscious of being more than it takes away. «infinite in faculties,” have faith to look before and after ; faith to go on, to reverence the dreams of I ?-no; how should I-skimming over the surtheir youth; faith to appeal to the god-like human face of society with perpetual sunshine and favour. mind yet unborn. Among the millions who are ing airs—how should I sound the shoals and gulf now thinking and feeling on our own soil, is it not which lie below ? likely that there is one who might take up the song

Mrs. Jameson's Visits and Sketches. of Homer, one who might talk the night away with Socrates, one who might be the Shakespeare of an Riches weigh more heavily upon talent than poverage, when our volcanoes shall have become regions ty. Under gold mountains and thrones lie buried of green pasture and still waters, and new islands many spiritual giants.

Richter. shall send forth human speech from the midst of the

What are such men about? If one is pining I hold the constant regard that we pay in all our in want, rusting in ignorance, or turning from angel actions to the judgments of others, as the poison of to devil under oppression, it is too probable that our peace, our reason, and our virtue. Upon this another may be undergoing extinction in drawing slave's chain have I long filed, but I scarcely hope rooms—surrendering his divine faculties to wither in lever to break it.

RICHTER,

sea ?

VOICES OF THE TRUE-HEARTED.

No. 15.

BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

PROMETHEUS.

Thy hated name is tossed once more in scorn From off my lips, for I will tell thy doom.

And are these tears ? Nay, do not triumph, Jove! One after one the stars have risen and set,

They are wrung from me but by the agonies Sparkling upon the hoarfrost on my chain :

Of prophecy, like those sparse drops which fall The Bear, that prowled all night about the fold

From clouds in travail of the lightning, when of the North-star, hath shrunk into his den, The great wave of the storm, high-curled and black Scared by the blithesome footsteps of the Dawn,

Rolls steadily onward to its thunderous break. Whose blushing smile floods all the Orient; Why art thou made a god of, thou poor type And now bright Lucifer grows less and less, Of anger, and revenge, and cunning force ? Into the heaven's blue quiet deep-withdrawn. True Power was never born of brutish Strength, Sunless and starless all, the desert sky

Nor sweet Truth suckled at the shaggy dugs Arches above me, empty as this heart

of that old she-wolf. Are thy thunderbolts, For ages hath been empty of all joy,

That quell the darkness for a space, so strong Except to brood upon its silent hope,

As the prevailing patience of meek Light, As o'er its hope of day the sky doth now.

Who, with the invincible tenderness of peace, All night have I heard voices : deeper yet

Wins it to be a portion of herself? The deep low breathing of the silence grew, Why art thou made a god of, thou, who hast While all about, muffled in awe, there stood The never-sleeping terror at thy heart, Shadows, or forms, or both, clear-felt at heart, That birthright of all tyrants, worse to bear But, when I turned to front them, far along Than this thy ravening bird on which I smile? Only a shudder through the midnight ran,

Thou swear'st to free me, if I will unfold And the dense stillness walled me closer round.

What kind of doom it is whose omen flits But still I heard them wander up and down

Across thy heart, as o'er a troop of doves That solitude, and flappings of dusk wings

The tearful shadow of the kite. What need Did mingle with them, whether of those hags To know that truth whose knowledge cannot save ? Let slip upon me once from Hades deep,

Evil its errand hath, as well as Good; Or of yet direr torments, if such be,

When thine is finished, thou art known no more : I could but guess; and then toward me came There is a higher purity than thou, A shape as of a woman : very pale

And higher purity is greater strength; It was, and calm; its cold eyes did not move, Thy nature is thy doom, at which thy heart And mine moved not, but only stared on them. Trembles behind the thick wall of thy might. Their fixed awe went through my brain like ice; Let man but hope, and thou art straightway chilled A skeleton hand seemed clutching at my heart, With thought of that drear silence and deep night And a sharp chill, as if a dank night fog

Which, like a dream, shall swallow thee and thing. Suddenly closed me in, was all I felt:

Let man but will, and thou art god no more,
And then, methought, I heard a freezing sigh. More capable of ruin than the gold
A long, deep, shivering sigh, as from blue lips And ivory that image thee earth.
Stiffening in death, close to mine ear.

I thought

He who hurled down the monstrous Titan.brood Some doom was close upon me, and I looked Blinded with lightnings, with rough thunders stunAnd saw the red moon through the heavy mist,

ned, Just setting, and it seemed as it were falling, Is weaker than a simple human thought. Or reeling to its fall, so dim and dead

My slender voice can shake thee, as the breeze, And palsy-struck it looked. Then all sounds merged That seems but apt to stir a maiden's hair, Into the rising surges of the pines,

Sways huge Oceanus from pole to pole :
Which, leagues below me, clothing the gaunt loins For I am still Prometheus, and foreknow
Of ancient Caucasus with hairy strength,

In my wise heart the end and doom of all.
Sent up a murmur in the morning wind,
Sad as the wail that from the populous earth

Yes, I am still Prometheus, wiser grown
All day and night to high Olympus soars,

By years of solitude,-that holds apart Fit incense to thy wicked throne, O Jove!

The past and future, giving the soul room

To search into itself,- and long commune

The murmurous bliss of lovers, underneath With this eternal silence;- more a god,

Dim grape-vine bowers, whose rosy bunches press In my long-suffering and strength to meet

Not half so closely their warm cheeks, unchecked With equal front the direst shafts of fate,

By thoughts of thy brute lust,—the hive-like hum Than thou in thy faint-hearted despotism,

of peaceful commonwealths, where sunburnt Toil Girt with thy baby.toys of force and wrath. Reaps for itself the rich earth made its own Yes, I am that Prometheus who brought down Ey its own labor, lightened with glad hymns The light to man, which thou, in selfish fear, To an omnipotence which thy mad bolts Had'st to thyself usurped,- his by sole right, Would cope with as a spark with the vast sea, For Man hath right to all save Tyranny,– Even the spirit of free love and peace, And which shall free him yet from thy frail throne. Duty's sure recompense through life and death,— Tyrants are but the spawn of Ignorance,

These are such harvests as all master-spirits Begotten by the slaves they trample on,

Reap, haply not on earth, but reap no less Who, could they win a glimmer of the light, Because the sheaves are bound by hands not theirs; And see that Tyranny is always weakness, These are the bloodless daggers wherewithal Or Fear with its own bosom ill at ease,

They stab fallen tyrants; this their high revenge: Would laugh away in scorn the sand-wove chain For their best part of life on earth is when, Which their own blindness feigned for adamant. Long after death, prisoned and pent no more, Wrong ever builds on quicksands, but the Right Their thoughts, their wild dreams even, have become To the firm centre lays its moveless base.

Part of the necessary air men breathe; The tyrant trembles, if the air but stirs

When, like the moon, herself behind a cloud, The innocent ringlets of a child's free hair, They shed down light before us on life's sea, And crouches, when the thought of some great spirit, That cheers us to steer onward still in hope. With world-wide murmur, like a rising gale, Earth with her twining memories ivies o'er Over men's hearts, as over standing corn,

Their holy sepulchres; the chainless sea, Rushes, and bends them to its own strong will. In tempest or wide calm, repeats their thoughts; So shall some thought of mine yet circle earth, The lightning and the thunder, all free things, And puff away thy crumbling altars, Jove!

Have legends of them for the ears of men.

All other glories are as falling stars,
And, wouldst thou know of my supreme revenge, But universal Nature watches theirs :
Poor tyrant, even now dethroned in heart,

Such strength is won by love of human kind.
Realmless in soul, as tyrants ever are,
Listen! and tell me if this bitter peak,

Not that I feel that hunger after fame,
This never-glutted vulture, and these chains Which souls of a half-greatness are beset with;
Shrink not before it; for it shall befit

But that the memory of noble deeds
A sorrow-taught, inconquered Titan-heart. Cries, shame upon the idle and the vile,
Men, when their death is on them, seem to stand And keeps the heart of Man for ever up
On a precipitous crag that overhangs

To the heroic level of old time.
The abyss of doom, and in that depth to see, To be forgot at first is little pain
As in a glass, the features dim and vast

To a heart conscious of such high intent Of things to come, the shadows, as it seems, As must be deathless on the lips of men; Of what have been. Death ever fronts the wise ; But, having been a name, to sink and be Not fearfully, but with clear promises

A something which the world can do without, Of larger life, on whose broad vans upborne, Which, having been or not, would never change Their out-look widens, and they see beyond The lightest pulse of fate, this is indeed The horizon of the Present and the Past,

A cup of bitterness the worst to taste, Even to the very source and end of things.

And this thy heart shall empty to the dregs. Such am I now: immortal woe bath made

Endless despair shall be thy Caucasus, My heart a seer, and my soul a judge

And memory thy vulture; thou wilt find Between the substance and the shadow of Truth. Oblivion far lonelier than this peak,The sure supremeness of the Beautiful,

Behold thy destiny! Tbou think'st it much By all the martyrdoms made doubly sure

That I should brave thee, miserable god! Of such as I am, this is my revenge,

But I have braved a mightier than thou,
Which of my wrongs builds a triumphal arch, Even the tempting of this soaring heart,
Throngh which I see a sceptre and a throne. Which might have made me, scarcely less than thou,
The pipings of glad shepherds on the hills,

A god among my brethren weak and blind, -
Tending the flocks no more to bleed for thee, Scarce less than thou, a pitiable thing
The songs of maidens pressing with white feet To be down-trodden into darkness soon.
The vintage on thine altars poured no more, But now I am above thee, for thou art

Thebungling workmanship of fear, the block But, О ihought far more blissful, they can rend
That awes the swart Barbarian; but I

This cloud of flesh, and make my soul a star!
Am what myself have made, -a nature wise
With finding in itself the types of all,

Unleash thy crouching thunders now, 0 Jove! With watching from the dim verge of the time

Free this high heart, which, a poor captive long, What things to be are visible in the gleams

Doth knock to be let forth, this heart which still
Thrown forward on them from the luminous past,- In its invincible manhood, overtops
Wise with the history of its own frail heart, Thy puny godship, as this mountain doth
With reverence and sorrow, and with love, The pines that moss its roots. O, even now,
Broad as the world, for freedom and for man. While from my peak of suffering I look down,

Beholding with a far-spread gush of hope
Thou and all strength shall crumble, except Love, The sunrise of that Beauty, in whose face,
By whom, and for whose glory, ye shall cease: Shone all around with love, no man shall look
And, when thou art but a dim moaning heard

But straightway like a god he is uplift
From out the pitiless glooms of Chaos, I

Unto the throne long empty for his sake, Shall be a power and a memory,

And clearly oft foreshadowed in wide dreams A name to fright all tyrants with, a light

By his free inward nature, which nor thou, Unsetting as the pole-star, a great voice

Nor any anarch after thee, can bind Heard in the breathless pauses of the fight

From working its great doom,- now, now set free By truth and freedom ever waged with wrong,

This essence, not to die, but to become Clear as a silver trumpet, to awake

Part of that awful Presence which doth haunt Huge echoes that from age to age live on

The palaces of tyrants, to hunt off, In kindred spirits, giving them a sense

With its grim eyes and fearful whisperings of boundless power from boundless suffering wrung: And hideous sense of utter loneliness, And many a glazing eye shall smile to see

All hope of safety, all desire of peace, The memory of my triumph, (for to meet

All but the loathed forefeeling of blank death,– Wrong with endurance, and to overcome

Part of that spirit which doth ever brood The present with a heart that looks beyond,

In patient calm on the unpilfered nest Are triumph), like a prophet eagle, perch

Of man's deep heart, till mighty thoughts grow fledged Upon the sacred banner of the Right.

To sail with darkening shadow o'er the world, Evil springs up, and flowers, and bears no seed,

Filling with dread such souls as dare not trust And feeds the green earth with its swist decay,

In the unfailing energy of Good, Leaving it richer for the growth of truth;

Until they swoop, and their pale quarry make Bit Good, once put in action or in thought,

Of some o'erbloated wrong, -that spirit which Like a strong oak, doth from its boughs shed down

Scatters great hopes in the seed field of man, The ripe germs of a forest. Thou, weak god,

Like acorns among grain, to grow and be
Shalt fade and be forgotten! but this soul,

A roof for freedom in all coming time!
Fresb-living still in the serene abyss,
In every heaving shall partake, that grows

But no, this cannot be; for ages yet,
From heart to heart among the sons of men, In solitude unbroken, shall I hear
As the ominous hum before the earthquake runs The angry Caspian to the Euxine shout,
Far through the Ægean from roused isle to isle,– And Euxine answer with a muffled roar,
Foreboding wreck to palaces and shrines,

On either side storming the giant walls
À nd imighty rents in many a cavernons error Of Caucasus with leagues of climbing foam,
That darkens the free light to man :- This heart, (Less, from my height, than flakes of downy snow,)
Unscarred by thy griin vulture, as the truth That draw back baffled but to hurl again,
Grows but more lovely 'neath the beaks and claws Snatched up in wrath and horrible turmoil,
Of Harpies blind that fain would soil it, shall Mountain on mountain, as the Titans erst,
In all the throbbing exultations share

My brethren, scaling the high seat of Jove, That wait on freedom's triumphs, and in all Heaved Pelion upon Ossa's shoulders broad The glorious agonies of martyr-spirits, –

In vain emprise. The moon will come and go Sharp lightning-throes to split the jagged clouds With her monotonous vicissitude; That veil the future, showing them the end, - Once beautiful, when I was free to walk Pain's thorny crown for constancy and truth, Among my fellows, and to interchange Girding the temples like a wreath of stars.

The influence benign of loving eyes, This is a thought, that, like the fabled laurel, But now by aged use grown wearisome; – Makes my faith thunder-proof; and thy dread bolts False thought! most false ! for how could I endure Fall on me like the silent flakes of snow

These crawling centuries of lonely woe On the hoar brows of aged Caucasus:

Unshamed by weak complaining, but for thee

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