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New England. While the mere intellectual man speculates, and the mere man of acquisition cites authority, the man of feeling acts, realizes, puts forth his complete energies. His earnest and strong heart will not let his mind rest; he is urged by an inward impulse to embody his thoughts; he must have sympathy; he must have results. And nature yields to the magician, acknowledging him as her child. The noble statue comes forth from the marble, the speaking figure stands out from the canvas, the electric chain is struck in the bosoms of his fellows. They receive his ideas, respond to his appeal, and reciprocate his love.

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HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN.

I would not waste my strength on those,
As thou; for summer hath a close,
And pansies bloom not in the snows.

If I were thou, O working bee,
And all that honey-gold I see
Could delve from roses easily,

I would not hive it at man's door,
As thou, that heirdom of my store
Should make him rich, and leave me poor.

If I were thou, O eagle proud,

And screamed the thunder back aloud,
And faced the lightning from the cloud,

I would not build my eyrie-throne,
As thou, upon a crumbling stone,
Which the next storm may trample down.

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If I were thou, O gallant steed,
With pawing hoof and dancing head,
And eye outrunning thine own speed,

I would not meeken to the rein,
As thou, nor smooth my nostril plain
From the glad desert's snort and strain.

If I were thou, red-breasted bird,
With song at shut-up window heard,
Like Love's sweet Yes, too long deferred,

I would not overstay delight,

As thou, but take a swallow-flight,
Till the new spring returned to sight.

While yet I spake, a touch was laid
Upon my brow, whose pride did fade
As thus, methought, an angel said:
"If I were thou who sing'st this song,
Most wise for others, and most strong
In seeing right while doing wrong,

I would not waste my cares, and choose
As thou, to seek what thou must lose,
Such gains as perish in the use.

"I would not work where none can win, As thou, half way 'twixt grief and sin, But look above, and judge within.

"I would not let my pulse beat high,
As thou, towards fame's regality,
Nor yet in love's great jeopardy.

"I would not champ the hard, cold bit, As thou, of what the world thinks fit, But take God's freedom using it.

"I would not play earth's winter out,
As thou; but gird my soul about,
And live for life past death and doubt.

"Then sing, O singer! but allow
Beast, fly, and bird, called foolish now,
Are wise, for all thy scorn, as thou."

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

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66

Control the latent fibers of the heart.
As studious Prospero's mysterious spell
Drew every subject-spirit to his cell,
Each, at thy call, advances or retires,
As judgment dictates, or the scene inspires,
Each thrills the seat of sense, that sacred

Source

Whence the fine nerves direct their mazy

course,

And through the frame invisible convey
The subtle, quick vibrations as they play;
Man's little universe at once o'ercast,
At once illumined when the cloud is past.
SAMUEL ROGERS.

THE

MEMORY.

HE mother of the muses, we are taught, Is Memory; she has left me; they remain, And shake my shoulder, urging me to sing About the summer days, my loves of old. "Alas! alas!" is all I can reply.

Memory has left me with that name alone, Harmonious name, which other bards may sing,

But her bright image in my darkest hour Comes back, in vain comes back, called or uncalled.

Forgotten are the names of visitors
Ready to press my hand but yesterday;
Forgotten are the names of earlier friends,
Whose genial converse and glad countenance
Are fresh as ever to mine ear and eye,
To these, when I have written, and besought
Remembrance of me, the word "Dear" alone
Hangs on the upper verge, and waits in vain.
A blessing wert thou, O Oblivion,
If thy stream carried only weeds away;
But vernal and autumnal flowers alike
It hurries down to wither on the strand.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

POWER AND GENIUS.

(From The Last of the Barons.")

'HERE,” said Adam quietly, and pointing to the feudal roofs-" There seems to rise power; and yonder” (glancing to the river)—" yonder seems to flow genius! A century or so hence the walls shall vanish, but the river shall roll on. Man makes the castle and founds the power-God forms the river, and creates the genius. And yet, Sybill, there may be streams as broad and stately as yonder Thames, that flow afar in the waste, never seen, never heard by man. What profits the river unmarked? what the genius

never to be known?"

It was not a common thing with Adam Warner to be thus eloquent. Usually silent and ab

sorbed, it was not his gift to moralize or declaim. His soul must be deeply moved before the profound and buried sentiment within it could escape into words.

Sybill pressed her father's hand, and though her own heart was very heavy, she forced her lips to smile, and her voice to soothe. Adam interrupted her.

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men.

'Child, child, ye women know not what presses darkest and most bitterly on the minds of You know not what it is to form out of immaterial things some abstract but glorious object to worship, to serve it-to sacrifice to it, as on an altar, youth, health, hope, life-and suddenly, in old age, to see that the idol was a phantom, a mockery, a shadow laughing us to scorn, because we have sought to clasp it."

"O yes, father, women have known that illusion."

"What! do they study?"

"No, father, but they feel!"

"Feel! I comprehend thee not."

"As man's genius to him, is woman's heart to her," answered Sybill, her dark and deep eyes suffused with tears. "Doth not the heart create-invent? Doth it not dream? Doth it not form its idol out of air? Goeth it not forth into the future to prophesy to itself? And, sooner or later, in age or youth, doth it not wake itself at last, and see how it hath wasted its all on follies? Yes, father, my heart can answer, when thy genius would complain." SIR EDWARD BULWER, LORD LYTTON.

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HE poor require culture as much as the rich; and at present their education, even when they get education, gives them hardly anything of it. Yet hardly less of it, perhaps, than the education of the rich gives to the rich. For when we say that culture is: To know the best that has been thought and said in the world, we imply that, for culture, a system directly tending to this end is necessary in our reading. Now, there is DO such system yet present to guide the reading of the rich, any more than of the poor. Such a system is hardly even thought of; a man who wants it must make it for himself. And our reading being so without purpose as it is, nothing can be truer than what Butler says, that really, in general, no part of our time is more idly spent than the time spent in reading.

Still, culture is indispensably necessary, and culture implies reading; but reading with a purpose to guide it, and with system. He does a good work who does anything to help this: indeed, it is the one essential service now to be rendered to education. And the plea, that this or that man has no time for culture, will vanish as soon as we desire culture so much that we begin to examine seriously our present use of our time. It has often been said, and cannot be said too often, give to any man all the time that he now wastes, not only on his vices, when he has them, but on useless business, wearisome or deterioriating amusements, trivial letter-writing, random reading; and he will have plenty of time for culture. "Die Zeit ist unendlich lang," says Goethe; and so it really is. Some of us waste all of it, most of us waste much, but all of us waste some. MATTHEW ARNOLD.

PERFECTION.

(From King John," Act IV., Scene 2.)

ALISBURY. Therefore to be possess'd
with double pomp,

To guard a title that was rich before,
To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,
To throw a perfume on the violet,

To smooth the ice, or add another hue
Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light
To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish,
Is wasteful, and ridiculous excess.

WILLIAM SHAKSPERE

L'ALLEGRO..

LIENCE, loathed Melancholy,

There, on beds of violets blue,

Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn,

'Mongst horrid shapes; and shrieks, and sights unholy!

Find out some uncouth cell

Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings,

And the night-raven sings;

There, under ebon shades, and low-browed rocks,

As ragged as thy locks,

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. But come, thou goddess fair and free,

In heaven yclept Euphrosyne,

"Zephyr, with Aurora playing, As he met her once a-Maying."

And, by men, heart-easing Mirth,
Whom lovely Venus, at a birth,
With two sister Graces more
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore;
Or whether, as some sages sing,

The frolic wind that breathes the spring,
Zephyr, with Aurora playing,
As he met her once a-Maying,

And fresh-blown roses washed in dew, Filled her with thee a daughter fair,

So buxom, blithe, and debonaire.

Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee
Jest, and youthful Jollity,

Quips, and cranks and wanton wiles,
Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek;
Sport, that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter, holding both his sides.
Come, and trip it as you go

On the light fantastic toe;

And in thy right hand lead with thee
The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty;
And if I give thee honor due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crew,

To live with her, and live with thee
In unreproved pleasures free;
To hear the lark begin his flight,
And singing, startle the dull Night,
From his watch-tower in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rise;
Then to come, in spite of Sorrow,
And at my window bid good-morrow
Through the sweet-briar, or the vine,
Or the twisted eglantine;

While the cock, with lively din,
Scatters the rear of darkness thin,
And to the stack or the barn door,
Stoutly struts his dames before;
Oft listening how the hounds and horn
Cheerily rouse the slumbering Morn
From the side of some hoar hill,
Through the high wood echoing shrill,
Sometime walking, not unseen,

By hedge-row elms, or hillocks green,
Right against the eastern gate
Where the great Sun begins his state,
Robed in flames and amber light,
The clouds in thousand liveries dight,
Whilst the plowman, near at hand,
Whistles o'er the furrowed land,
And the milk-maid singeth blithe,
And the mower whets his scythe,
And every shepherd tells his tale
Under the hawthorne in the dale.
Straight mine eye hath caught new pleas-

ures,
Whilst the landscape round it measures
Russet lawns, and fallows gray,
Where the nibbling flocks do stray,
Mountains, on whose barren breast

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The laboring clouds do often rest, Meadows trim, with daisies pied, Shallow brooks, and rivers wide. Towers and battlements it sees, Bosomed high in tufted trees, Where, perhaps, some beauty lies, The cynosure of neighboring eyes. Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes From betwixt two aged oaks, Where Corydon and Thyrsis met

Dancing in the checkered shade;
And young and old come forth to play
On a sunshiny holiday,

Till the livelong daylight fail;
Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,
With stories told of many a feat:
How fairy Mab the junkets eat-
She was pinched and pulled, she said,
And he by friar's lantern led;
Tells how the drudging goblin sweat
To earn his cream-bowl, duly set,
When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
His shadowy flail had threshed the corn
That ten day-laborers could not end;
Then lies him down the lubber fiend,

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"Where throngs of knights and barons bold
In weeds of peace high triumphs hold,
With store of ladies, whose bright eyes
Rain influence, and judge the prize."

Are at their savory dinner set
Of herbs, and other country messes,
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;
And then in haste her bower she leaves,
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves;
Or, if the earlier season lead,
To the tanned haycock in the mead.
Sometime, with secure delight
The upland hamlets will invite,
When the merry bells ring round,
And the jocund rebecks sound

To many a youth, and many a maid,

And stretched out all the chimney's length,
Basks at the fire his hairy strength,
And, cropfull, out of doors he flings
Ere the first cock his matin rings.

Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,
By whispering winds soon lulled asleep.
Towered cities please us then,
And the busy hum of men,

Where throngs of knights and barons bold
In weeds of peace high triumphs hold,

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