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Loneliest, save me, of all created things,

FROM LONGFELLOW'S HYPERION. Mild-eyed Astarte, my best comforter,

And yet, if you look closely at the causes of With thy pale smile of sad benignity?

these calamities of authors, you will find, that many Year after year will pass away and seem

of them spring from false and exaggerated ideas of To me, in mine eternal agony,

poetry and the poetic character; and from disdain But as the shadows of dumb summer-clouds,

of common sense, upon which all character, worth Which I have watched so often darkening o'er

having, is founded. This comes from keeping aloof The vast Sarmatian plain, league-wide at first,

from the world, apart from our fellow-men; disBut, with still swiftness, lessening on and on

dainful of society, as frivolous By too much sitTill cloud and shadow meet and mingle where

ting still the body becomes unbealthy; and soon the The gray horizon fades into the sky,

mind. This is nature's law. She will never see Far, far to northward. Yes, for ages yet

her children wronged. If the mind, which rules Must I lie here upon my altar huge,

the body, ever forgets itself so far as to trample A sacrifice for man. Sorrow will be,

upon its slave, the slave is never generous enough As it hath been, his portion; endless doom,

to forgive the injury; but will rise and smite its While the immortal with the mortal linked

oppressor. 'l hus has many a monarch nind been

dethroned. Dreams of its wings and pines for what it dreams, With upward yearn unceasing. Better so:

LITERARY FAME. For wisdom is meek sorrow's patient child,

Time has a Doomsday-Book, upon whose pages And empire over self, and all the deep

he is continually recording illustrious names. But, Strong charities that make men seem like gods;

as often as a new name is written there, an old one And love, that makes them be gods, from her breasts

disappears. Only a few stand in illuminated cbaSucks in the milk that makes mankind one blood. Good never comes unmixed, or so it seems,

racters, never to be effaced. These are the high

nobility of Nature, -Lords of the Public Domain of Having two faces, as some images

T'hought. Posterity shall never question their titles. Are carved, of foolish gods; one face is ill;

But those, whose fame lives only in the indiscreet But one heart lies beneath, and that is good,

opinion of unwise men, must soon be as well forAs are all hearts, when we explore their depths.

gotten, as if they had never been. To this great Therefore, great heart, bear up! thou art but type

oblivion must most men come. It is better, thereof what all lofty spirits endure, that fain Would win men back to strength and peace through this: well knowing, that, as their bodies must ere

fore, that they should soon make up their minds to love :

long be resolved into dust again, and their graves Each hath his lonely peak, and on each heart

tell no tales of them; so must their names likewise Envy, or scorn, or hatred, tears lifelong

be utterly forgotten, and their most cherished With vulture beak; yet the high soul is left; And faith, which is but hope grown wise ; and love; individual being among men; but be resolved and in

thoughts, purposes, and opinions have no longer an And patience, which at last shall overcome.

corporated into the universe of thought. If, then, the imagination can trace the noble dust of heroes, till we find it stopping a beer-barrel, and know that

Imperial Cæsar, dead and turned to clay,

May stop a hole to keep the wind away;"
HOPE.

not less can it trace the noble thoughts of great men,
till it finds them mouldered into the common dust

of conversation, and used to stop men's mouths, and Hope in the young heart springeth

patch up theories, to keep out the flaws of opinion. As flowers in the infant year;

Such, for example, are all popular adages and wise Hope in the young heart singeth,

proverbs, which are now resolved into the common As birds when the flowers appear.

mass of thought; their authors forgotten, and having Hope in the old heart dieth,

no more an individual being among men. As wither those early flowers;

It is better, therefore, that men should soon make Hope from the old heart flieth,

up their minds to be forgotten, and look about them, As the birds from wintry bowers.

or within them, for some higher motive, in what

they do, than the approbation of men, which is But Spring will revive the flowers;

Fame; namely, their duty; that they should be con. And the birds return to sing;

stantly and quietly at work, each in his sphere, reAnd Death will renew Hope's powers gardless of effects, and leaving their fame to take In the old heart withering.

care of itself. Difficult must this indeed be, in our

BY RICHARD PENN SMITH.

imperfection; impossible perhaps to achieve its dark, gray city. Oh, they do greatly err, who wholly. Yet the resolute, the indomitable will of think, that the stars are all the poetry which cities man can achieve much,-at times even this victory have; and therefore that the poet's only dwelling over himself; being persuaded, that fame comes only should be in sylvan solitudes, under the green roof wheu deserved, and then is as inevitable as destiny, or trees. Beautisul, no doubt, are all the forms of for it is destiny.

Nature, when transfigured by the miraculous power It has become a common saying, that men of of poetry; hamlets and harvest-fields, and nut-brown genius are always in advance of their age; which is waters, flowing ever under the forest, vast and true. There is something equally true, yet not so shadowy, with all the sights and sounds of rural life. common; namely, that, of these men of genius, the But after all, what are these but the decorations and best and bravest are in advance not only of their painted scenery in the great theatre of human life? own age, but of every age. As the German prose- What are they but the coarse materials of the poet's poet says, every possible future is behind them. song? Glorious indeed is the world of God around We cannot suppose, that a period of time will ever us, but more glorious the world of God within us. come, when the or any considerable portion There lies the Land of Song; there lies the poet's of it shall have come up abreast with these great native land. The river of life, that flows through minds, so as fully to comprehend them.

streets tumultuous, bearing along so many gallant And oh! how majestically they walk in history; hearts, so many wrecks of humanity:— the many some like the sun, with all his travelling glories homes and households, each a little world in itself, round him; others wrapped in gloom, yet glorious revolving round its fireside, as a central sun; all as a night with stars. Through the else silent forms of human joy and suffering, brought into that darkness of the past, the spirit hears their slow and narrow compass ;-and to be in this and be a part of solemn footsteps. Onward they pass, like those this; acting, thinking, rejoicing, sorrowing, with hoary elders seen in the sublime vision of an earthly his fellow-men ;-such, such should be the poet's Paradise, attendant angels bearing golden lights be- life. If he would describe the world, he should live fore them, and, above and behind, the whole air paint. in the world. The mind of the scholar, also, if you ed with seven listed colors, as from the trail of pencils! would have it large and liberal, should come in con

And yet, on earth, these men were not happy,—tact with other minds. It is better that his armour not all happy, in the outward circumstance of their should be somewhat bruised even by rude enlives. They were in want, and in pain, and fa- counters, than hang forever rusting on the wall. miliar with prison-bars, and the damp, weeping Nor will his themes be few or trivial, because apwalls of dungeons! Oh, I have looked with wonder parently shut in between the walls of houses, and upon those, who, in sorrow and privation, and bodily having merely the decorations of street scenery. A discomfort, and sickness, which is the shadow of ruined character is as picturesque as a ruined castle. death, have worked right on to the accomplishment There are dark abysses and yawning gulfs in the of their great purposes; toiling much, enduring human heart, which can be rendered passable only much, fulfilling much;—and then, with shattered by bridging them over with iron nerves and sinews, nerves, and sinews all unstrung, have laid them- as Challey bridged the Savine in Switzerland, and selves down in the grave, and slept the sleep of Telford the sea between Anglesea and England, with death,—and the world talks of them, while they sleep! chain bridges. These are the great themes of hu

It would seem, indeed, as if all their sufferings man thought; not green grass, and flowers, and had but sanctified them! As if the death-angel, in moonshine. Besides, the mere external forms of passing, had touched them with the hem of his gar. Nature we make our own. and carry with us into ment, and made them holy! As if the hand of dis- the city, by the power of memory. ease had been stretched out over them only to make

I fear, however, interrupted Flenyming, that the sign of the cross upon their souls! And as in in cities the soul of man grows proud. He needs at the sun's eclipse we can behold the great stars times to be sent forth, like the Assyrian monarch, shining in the heavens, so in this life-eclipse have into green fields, a wonderous wretch and weed. these men beheld the lights of the great eternity, less,' to eat green herbs, and be wakened and chasburning solemnly and for ever!

tised by the rain shower and winter's bitter weather.

Moreover, in cities there is danger of the soul's beTHE SCHOLAR'S HOME.

coming wed to pleasure, and forgetful of its high But to resume our old theme of scholars and vocation. There have been souls dedicated to hea. their whereabout,

where should the ven from childhood and guarded by good angels as scholar live? In solitude or in society? In the sweet seclusions for holy thoughts, and prayers, and green stillness of the country, where he can hear all good purposes; wherein pious wishes dwelt like the heart of nature beat, or in the dark, gray city, nuns, and every image was a saint ; and yet in life's where he can hear and feel the throbbing heart of vicissitudes, by the treachery of occasion, by the man? I will make answer for him, and say, in the thronging passions of great cities, have become

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soiled and sinful. They resemble those convents of the state and age, and could say with Wallenstein' on the river Rhine, which have been changed to

Our life was but a battle and a march; taverns; from whose chambers the pious inmates And, like the wind's blast, never-testing, homeless,

We stormed across the war convulsed earth.' have long departed, and in whose cloisters the footsteps of travellers have effaced the images of buried Of such examples history has recorded many; Dante, saints, and whose walls are written over with ribaldry Cervanies, Byron, and others; men of iron ; men and the names of strangers, and resound no more with who have dared to breast the strong breath of public holy hymns, but with revelry and loud voices. opinion, and, like spectre-ships, come sailing right

Both town and country have their dangers, said against the wind. Others have been puffed out by the Baron; and therefore, wherever the scholar the first adverse wind that blew; disgraced and sorlives, he must never forget his high vocation. Other rowsul, because they could not please others. Truly artists give themselves up wholly to the study of the tears live in an onion, that should water such their art. It becomes with them almost religion. For a sorrow.' Had they been men, they would have the most part, and in their youth, at least, they dwell made these disappointments their best friends, and in lands, where the whole atmosphere of the soul is learned from them the needful lesson of self-rebeauty; laden with it as the air may be with vapor, liance. till their very nature is saturated with the genius of To confess the truth, added the Baron, the their art. Such, for example, is the artist's life in lives of literary men, with their hopes and disapItaly.

pointments, and quarrels and calamities, present I agree with you, exclaimed Flemming; and a melancholy picture of man's strength and weaksuch should be the Poet's everywhere; for he has his ness. On that very account the scholar can make Rome, his Florence, his whole glowing Italy within them profitable for encouragement,-consolation the four walls of his library. He has in his books warning. the ruins of an antique world, -and the glories of a And after all, continued Flemming, perhaps modern one,-his Apollo and Transfiguration. He the greatest lesson, which the lives of literary men must neither forget nor undervalue his vocation; but teach us, is told in a single word; Wait!- Every thank God that he is a poet; and everywhere be true man must patiently bide his time. He must wait. to himself, and to the vision and the faculty divine' More particularly in lands, like my native land, he feels within him.

where the pulse of life beats with such feverish and But, at any rate, a city life is most eventful, impatient throbs, is the lesson needful. Our national continued the Baron. The men who make, or character wants the dignity of repose. We seem to take, the lives of poets and scholars, always coin- live in the midst of a battle,—there is such a din,plain that these lives are barren of incidents. Hardly such a hurrying to and fro. In the streets of a a literary biography begins without some such crowded city it is difficult to walk slowly. You feel apology, unwisely made. I confess, however, that the rushing of the crowd, and rush with it onward. it is not made without some show of truth; if, by In the press of our life it is difficult to be calm. In incidents, we mean only those startling events, this stress of wind and tide, all professions seem to which suddenly turn aside the stream of Time, and drag their anchors, and are swept out into the main. change the world's history in an hour. There is The voices of the Present say, Come! But the certainly a uniformity, pleasing or unpleasing, in voices of the Past say, Wait! With calm and soliterary life, which for the most part makes to-day lemn footsteps the rising tide bears against the rushseem twin-born with yesterday. But if, by inci- ing torrent up stream, and pushes back the hurrying dents, you mean events in the history of the human waters. With no less calm and solemn footsteps. mind, (and why not?) noiseless events, that do not nor less certainly, does a great mind bear up against scar the forehead of the world as battles do, yet public opinion, and push back its hurrying stream. change it not the less, then surely the lives of lite. Therefore should every man wait;-should bide his rary men are most eventful. The complaint and time. Not in listless idleness,-not in useless pasthe apology are both foolish. I do not see why a time, not in querulous dejection; but in constant successful book is not as great an event as a success steady, cheerful endeavours, always willing and fulful campaign; only different in kind, and not easily filling, and accomplishing his task, that, when the compared.

occasion comes, he may be equal to the occasion. Indeed, interrupted Flemming, in no sense is And if it never comes, what matters it? What matthe complaint strictly true, though at times ap- ters it to the world whether I, or you, or another parently so. Events enough there are, were they all man did such a deed, or wrote such a book, sobeit set down. A life, that is worth writing at all, is the deed and book were well done! It is the past worth writing minutely. Besides, all literary men of an indiscreet and troublesome ambition, to care have not lived in silence and solitude ;-not all in too much about fame,-about what the world says stillness, not all in shadow. For many have lived of us. To be always looking into the faces of others in troubled times, in the rude and adverse fortunes for approval ;-to be always anxious for the effect

man.

SPRING IN HEIDELBERG.

The Swallow is come!
The Swallow is come!

of what we do and say; to be always shouting to At the fireside of the great, hospitable sun, to-morhear the echo of our own voices! If you look about row, not before ;-they must sit in wet garments you, you will see men, who are wearing life away until then. in feverish anxiety of fame, and the last we shall In all climates Spring is beautiful. In the South ever hear of them will be the funeral bell, that tolls it is intoxicating, and sets a poet beside himself. them to their early graves! Unhappy men, and un- The birds begin to sing ;- they utter a few rapturous successful! because their purpose is, not to accom- notes, and then wait for an answer in the silent plish well their task, but to clutch the trick and woods. Those green-coated musicians, the frogs, fantasy of fame'; and they go to their graves with make holiday in the neighbouring marshes. They, purposes unaccomplished and wishes unfulfilled. too, belong to the orchestra of Nature; whose vast Better for them, and for the world in their example, theatre is again opened, though the doors have been had they known how to wait! Believe me, the so long bolted with icicles, and the scenery hung talent of success is nothing more than doing what with snow and frost, like cobwebs. This is the you can do well; and doing well whatever you prelude, which announces the rising of the broad do,- without a thought of fame. If it come at all, green curtain. Already the grass shoots forth. it will come because it is deserved, not because it The waters leap with thrilling pulse through the is sought after. And, moreover, there will be no veins of the earth; the sap through the veins of the misgivings,-no disappointment,

,-no hasty, fever- plants and trees; and the blood through the veins of ish, exhausting excitement.

What a thrill of delight in spring-time!, What a joy in being and moving! Men are at work

in gardens; and in the air there is an odor of the It was a sweet carol, which the Rhodian children fresh earth. The leaf-buds begin to swell and sang of old in Spring, bearing in their hands, from blush. The white blossoms of tảe cherry hang upon door to door, a swallow, as herald of the season; the boughs like snow-flakes; and ere long our next

door neighbours will be completely hidden from us

by the dense green foliage. The May-flowers open O fair are the seasons, and light Are the days that she brings,

their soft blue eyes. Children are let loose in the With her dusky wings,

fields and gardens. They hold butter-cups unler And her bosom snowy white."

each others' chins, to see if they love butter. And A pretty carol, too, is that, which the Hungarian the little girls adorn themselves with chains and boys, on the islands of the Danube, sing to the re-curlsof dandelions; pull out the yellow leaves to turning stork in Spring;

see if the schoolboy loves them, and blow the down “Stork! Stork! poor Stork!

from the leafless stalk, to find out if their mothers Why is thy foot so bloody?

want them at home.
A Turkish boy hath torn it;
Hungarian boy will heal it,

And at night so cloudless and so still. Not a
With fiddle, tife, and drum."

voice of living thing, --not a whisper of leaf or But what child has a heart to sing in this capri- waving bough, not a breath of wind, -not a sound cious clime of ours, where Spring comes sailing in upon the earth nor in the air! And overhead bends from the sea, with wet and heavy cloud-sails, and the blue sky, dewy and soft, and radiant with innuthe misty pennon of the East-wind nailed to the merable stars, like the inverted bell of some blue mast! Yet even here, and in the stormy month of flower, sprinkled with golden dust, and breathing March even, there are bright, warm mornings, when fragrance. Or if the heavens are overcast, it is no we open our windows to inhale the balmy air. The wild storm of wind and rain; but clouds that melt pigeons fly to and fro, and we hear the whirring and fall in showers. One does not wish to sleep: sound of wings. Old flies crawl out of the cracks, but lies awake to hear the pleasant sound of the to sun themselves; and think it is summer. They dropping rain. die in their conceit; and so do our hearts within us,

MAN'S DESTINY. when the cold sea-breath comes from the eastern sea; and again,

Just observe what a glorious thing human life is, " The driving hail

when seen in this light; and how glorious man's Upon the window beats with icy flail.”

destiny. I am; thou art; he is ! seems but a schoolThe red-flowering maple is first in blossom, its boy's conjugation. But therein lies a great mystery. beautiful purple flowers unfolding a fortnight before These words are significant of much. We behold the leaves. The moose-wood follows, with rose. all round about us one vast union, in which no man colored buds and leaves; and the dog-wood, robed can labor for himself without laboring at the same in the white of its own pure blossoms. Then comes time for all others; a glimpse of truth, which by the the sudden rain-storm; and the birds fly to and fro, universal harmony of things becomes an inward and shriek. Where do they hide themselves in such benediction, and lists the soul mightily upward. storms? at what firesides dry their feathery cloaks? Still more so, when a man regards himself as a ne

BY JOHN G. WHITTIER,

waves

never

cessary member of this union. The feeling of our

THE YANKEE GIRL. dignity and our power grows strong, when we say to ourselves; My being is not objectless and in vain; I am a necessary link in the great chain, which, She sings by her wheel, at that low cottage-door, from the full developement of consciousness in the Which the long evening shadow is stretching before, first man, reaches forward into eternity. All the With a music as sweet as the music which seems great, and wise, and good among mankind, all the Breathed softly and faint in the ear of our dreams! benefactors of the human race, whose names I read How brilliant and mirthful the light of her eye, in the world's history, and the still greater number Like a star glancing out from the blue of the sky! of those, whose good deeds have outlived their And lightly and freely her dark tresses play names,-all those have labored for me. I have en- O'er a brow and a bosom as lovely as they! tered into their harvest. I walk the green earth, which they inhabited. I tread in their footsteps, Who comes in his pride to that low cottage-doorfrom which blessings grow. I can undertake the The haughty and rich to the humble and poor? sublime task, which they once undertook, the task 'Tis the great Southern planter—the master who of making our common brotherhood wiser and happier. I can build forward, where they were forced | His whip of dominion o'er hundreds of slaves. to leave off; and bring nearer to perfection the great

" Nay, Ellen-for shame! Let those Yankee fools edifice which they left uncompleted. And at length

spin, 1, too, must leave it, and go hence. O, this is the Who would pass for our slaves with a change of their sublimest thought of all! I can never finish the

skin; noble task; therefore, so sure as this task is my Let them toil as they will at the loom or the wheel, destiny, I can never cease to work, and consequently Too stupid for shame, and too vulgar to feel!

cease to be. What men call death cannot break off this task, which is never ending; conse- But thou art too lovely and precious a gem quently no period is set to my being, and I am To be bound to their burdens and sullied by themeternal. I lift my head boldly to the threatening For shame, Ellen, shame!-cast thy bondage aside, mountain-peaks, and to the roaring cataract, and to And away to the South, as my blessing and pride. the storm-clouds swimming in the fire-sea overhead and say; I am eternal, and defy your power! Break, But where flowers are blossoming all the year long,

Oh, come where no winter thy footsteps can wrong, break over me! and thou Earth, and thou Heaven, Where the shade of the palm tree is over my home, mingle in the wild tumult! and ye Elements foam

And the lemon and orange are white in their bloom! and rage, and destroy this atom of dust,—this body, which I call mine! My will alone, with its fixed Oh, come to my home, where my servants shall all purpose, shall hover brave and triumphant over the Depart at thy bidding and come at thy call; ruins of the universe; for I have comprehended my They shall heed thee as mistress with trembling and destiny; and it is more durable than ye! It is

awe, eternal; and I, who recognise it, I likewise am And each wish of thy heart shall be felt as a law." eternal :

Oh, could ye have seen her—that pride of our girls

Arise and cast back the dark wealth of her curls, Far from our ranks be that timid sentiment of With a scorn in her eye which the gazer could feel, Erasmus, « Peaceful error is better than boisterous And a glance like the sunshine that flashes on steel! truth.” That was the shrinking sensitiveness of a secluded student, whom the rough sounds of free

"Go back, haughty Southron! thy treasures of gold discussion had never hardened into manly vigor, and Are dim with the blood of the hearts thou hast sold; hopeful quiet trust in the power of truth. Better, Thy home may be lovely, but round it I hear far better, the heroic advice of old Bancreldt, free. The crack of the whip and the footsteps of fear! dom's martyr, “ Peace, if possible, but truth at any And the sky of thy South may be brighter than ours, rate."-Wendell Phillips.

And greener thy landscapes, and fairer thy flowers; They are indeed long shadows, and their evening But, dearer the blast round our mountains which sunshine lies cold upon the earth; but they all point raves, toward the morning.-Jean Paul.

Than the sweet summer zephyr which breathes over

slaves ! It is ever to the injury of essentials, that the mind of man is preoccupied with secondary matter. Full low at thy bidding thy negroes may kneel,

With the iron of bondage on spirit and heel; How often was I not forced in bitterness of heart Yet know that the Yankee girl sooner would be to say, I must tread the wine-press alone?' In fetters with them, than in freedom with thee.!"

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