And yet not all forgotten sleeps he there; Seemed living with the crown of light he wore; He sleeps, and yet, around the sightless eye He will not sleep for ever, but will rise Fresh to more daring labors; now, even now, Yes, he will break his sleep; the spell is gone; Keen as the famished eagle darts her wing; He rushes forth to conquer: shall they take- The spirit cannot always sleep in dust, Whose essence is ethereal; they may try To darken and degrade it; it may rust Dimly awhile, but cannot wholly die; And, when it wakens, it will send its fire Interser forth and higher. Genius Waking.—PERCIVAL. SLUMBER'S heavy chain hath bound thee- Feebler wings are gathering round thee— With his burning beams! Thine was once the highest pinion With a proud and sure dominion, Like the herald, winged with lightning, Ever mounting, ever brightening, Where the pillared props of heaven O, what rare and heavenly brightness As a cascade's foamy whiteness Wheeling through the shadowy ocean, With serene and placid motion, Thou wert dazzling bright. From that cloudless region stooping, Up again undaunted soaring, Thou didst pierce the cloud, When the warring winds were roaring Where is now that restless longing Come they not, like visions, thronging Why should not their glow enchant thee Surely danger cannot daunt thee But thou slumberest; faint and quivering Like a dove in winter shivering, Or a feebler thing. Where is now thy might and motion, Where is now thy heart's devotion? Where thy spirit's light? Hark! his rustling plumage gathers Closer to his side, Close, as when the storm-bird weathers Ocean's hurrying tide. Now his nodding beak is steady Wide his burning eye Now his opening wings are ready, And his aim-how high! Now he curves his neck, and proudly Now, like sunset over fountains, Glorious bird, thy dream has left thee- With a bold, a fearless pinion, On thy starry road, None, to fame's supreme dominion, The Spirit of Poetry.-LONGFELLOW. THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods, That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows- Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself Their tops the green trees lift. -Hence gifted bards Their old poetic legends to the wind. And this is the sweet spirit that doth fill The world; and, in these wayward days of youth, My busy fancy oft imbodies it, As a bright image of the light and beauty That dwell in nature-of the heavenly forms We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues That lie i' the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds The heaven of April, with its changing light, And when it wears the blue of May, was hung, And on her lip the rich red rose. Her hair Was as the summer tresses of the trees, When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek With its ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath It was so like the gentle air of spring, As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes To have it round us-and her silver voice Was the rich music of a summer bird, Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence. Incomprehensibility of God.*-MISS ELIZABETH TOWNSEND. "I go forward, but he is not there; and backward, but I cannot perceive him." WHERE art thou?-THOU! Source and Support of all That is or seen or felt; Thyself unseen, Unfelt, unknown,-alas! unknowable! I look abroad among thy works-the sky, Vast, distant, glorious with its world of suns,— And speaking winds,-and ask if these are Thee! *To meet with such a piece of poetry as this, which we find in the fifth volume of the Unitarian Miscellany, would repay us for the toil of looking through whole libraries. It is equal in grandeur to the celebrated production of Bryant-" Thanatopsis ; nor will it suffer by a comparison with the most sublime pieces either of Wordsworth or of Coleridge. The latter (with a feeling akin to the elevated inspiration which animates these noble lines) has said, "For never guiltless may I speak of Him, I praise Him, and with Faith, that inly feels; ED. |