And the whole universe from end to end,
Conscious of me, should tremble to its core !
Spirit heroical, imperious passion,

That sharply sets the pliant face of youth,
That blinds the shrinking eyes of pallid fear,
And plants the lion's heart in modest breasts-
I know that thou hast led, with regal port,
The potent spirits of humanity

Before the van of niggard Time, and borne,
With strides gigantic, man's advancing race
From power to power; till, like a host of gods,
They mock my elements, and drag the secrets
Of my mysterious forces up to light,
Giving them bounds determinate and strait,
And of their natures, multiform and huge,
Talking to children in familiar way.
The hero's sword, the poet's golden string,
The tome-illuming taper of the sage,
Flash 'neath thy influence; from thee alone,
Ambitious planet, comes the marvellous power
That in a cherub's glowing form can veil
A heart as cold as Iceland, and exalt
To deity the demon Selfishness.
O planet, mingle with thy chilling rays,
That stream inspiring to the hero's soul,
One beam of love for vast humanity,
And thou art godlike. Must it ever be,
That brightest flowers of action and idea
Spring from the same dark soil of selfish lust?
Must man receive the calculated gifts
Of shrewd Ambition's self-exalting hand,
And blindly glorify an act at which

The host of heaven grow red with thoughtful shame?
Shall Knowledge hasten with her sunny face,
And weeping Virtue lag upon the path?
Shall man exultant boast advance of power,
Nor see arise, at every onward stride,
New forms of sin to shadow every truth?
Roll on, roll on, in self-supported pride,
Prodigious influence of the hero's soul;
I feel thy strength, and tremble in thy glare!

O many-ringed Saturn, turn away
The chilling terrors of thy baleful glance!
Thy gloomy look is piercing to my heart-
I wither 'neath thy power! My springs dry up,
And shrink in horror to their rocky beds;
The brooks that whisper'd to the lily-bells
All day the glory of their mountain homes,
And kiss'd the dimples of the wanton rose,
At the deed blushing to their pebbly strands,
Cease their sweet merriment, and glide afraid
Beneath the shelter of the twisted sedge.
The opening bud shrinks back upon its shell,
As if the North had puff'd his frozen breath
Full in its face. The billowing grain and grass,
Rippling with windy furrows, stand becalm'd;
Nor 'mong their roots, nor in their tiny veins,
Bestirs the fruitful sap. The very trees,
Broad, hardy sons of crags and sterile plains,
That roar'd defiance to the Winter's shout,
And battled sternly through his cutting sleet,
Droop in their myriad leaves; while nightly birds,
That piped their shrilling treble to the moon,
Hang silent from the boughs, and peer around,

Awed by mysterious sympathy. From thee,
From thee, dull planet, comes this lethargy
That numbs in mid career meek Nature's power,
And stills the prattle of her plumed train.

O icy Saturn, proud in ignorance,

Father of sloth, dark, deadening influence,
That dims the eye to all that's beautiful,
And twists the haughty lip with killing scorn
For love and holiness-from thee alone
Springs the cold, crushing power that presses down
The infinite in man. From thee, dull star,
The cautious fear that checks the glowing heart,
With sympathetic love world-wide o'erfreighted,
And sends it panting back upon itself,
To murmur in its narrow hermitage.
The boldest hero staggers in thy frown,
And drops his half-form'd projects all aghast:
The poet shrinks before thy phantom glare,
Ere the first echo greets his timid song;
The startled sage amid the embers hurls
The gather'd wisdom of a fruitful life.-
Oh, who may know from what bright pinnacles
The mounting soul might look on coming time,
Had all the marvellous thoughts of genius-
Blasted to nothingness by thy cold sneer-
Burst through the bud and blossom'd into fruit!
Benumbing planet, on our system's skirt,
Whirl from thy sphere, and round some lonely sun,
Within whose light no souls their ordeals pass,
Circle and frown amid thy frozen belts;
For I am sick of thee, and stately man
Shrinks to a pigmy in thy fearful stare!

FINALE-CHORUS OF STARS.

Heir of Eternity, mother of souls,
Let not thy knowledge betray thee to folly!
Knowledge is proud, self-sufficient, and lone,
Trusting, unguided, its steps in the darkness.
Thine is the learning that mankind may win,
Glean'd in the pathway between joy and sorrow;
Ours is the wisdom that hallows the child,
Fresh from the touch of his awful Creator,
Dropp'd, like a star, on thy shadowy realm,
Falling in splendour, but falling to darken.
Ours is the simple religion of faith,

The wisdom of trust in GoD who o'errules us-
Thine is the complex misgivings of thought,
Wrested to form by imperious Reason.
We are forever pursuing the light—
Thou art forever astray in the darkness.
Knowledge is restless, imperfect, and sad—
Faith is serene, and completed, and joyful.
Chide not the planets that rule o'er thy ways:
They are Gon's creatures; nor, proud in thy reason.
Vaunt that thou knowest his counsels and him:
Boaster, though sitting in midst of the glory,
Thou couldst not fathom the least of his thoughts.
Bow in humility, bow thy proud forehead,
Circle thy form in a mantle of clouds,
Hide from the glittering cohorts of evening
Wheeling in purity, singing in chorus;
Howl in the depths of thy lone, barren mountains,
Restlessly moan on the deserts of ocean,
Wail o'er thy fall in the desolate forests,
Lost star of paradise, straying alone!

Ay, let me wither like a riven branch,
So thou art lifted, thou art magnified,
And thy pure beauties valued at their worth.
Then, as I hear thy ever-tuneful voice
Roll to the future in a gathering surge,
Resplendent dancing on the van of time,
I'll shout thy praise in loud-tongued jubilee,
Nor pay thee half I owe. In thee alone-
In thee alone I live, refining spirit!
For thou the drooping soul of dross canst purge,
And lift the bard above the common herd
That toil and traffic, till their mental eye
Grows dull or blind, for want of brighter use.
Oh, living triflers! while the roaring waves
Of seas eternal thunder in your ears,

And shake Time's shifting sands beneath your feet,
Rising to gulf ye-pause amid your gains!
Look up to heaven, and dare to tell your souls
This is the destiny which GoD ordain'd.
Oh, frenzy dire! that man should bow his mind
To lick the dust, and conscious pride thence gain.
Dare ye, ye petty things, ye solemn fools,
Who shine, like glow-worms, when all else is dark,
But fade to reptiles when the morn appears-
Dare ye the poet scorn, or by him pass,
As he were noteless mid your brother worms?
Dare ye unfold his book with listless hands,
And trifle o'er the page, to wile an hour?
Oh, dare ye dim the links of that bright chain
Whose highest term but ends in GoD himself?
And, worse than all, dare ye, the gifted few
By nature pure, turn faithless, and drag down
Your furled plumes, to trail them in the mire-
Debase your calling-more than all conduce
To bring reproach upon your mystery!
Ye priests of Time, ye Heaven-anointed bards,
Summon'd on earth to lure, to urge, to drive
Reluctant man along the narrow path-
Oh, can ye mingle with the meaner throng,
And waste your glory in neglect? or, worse,
Can ye add lustre to the tempting sins
That, like a wanton's arms, engird our race-
Gilding the slimy pools of sloth and guilt
With brightness for a nobler use bestow'd!
Ye sin in knowledge, and ye know the doom;
Ye need no tutor. Hell, with hollow jaws,
Gapes wide before you, open-eyed ye plunge-
Knowing the better path, ye choose the worst.
Bright Poesy! 'tis not alone thy task
To sanctify the forms that deck our earth;
To lend a soul to things all lifeless else;
Or to interpret for mankind the sins
Symbolic, yet unmeaning but for thee-
The God-writ hieroglyphs, that letter earth
In every shape which changing Nature takes,
And have significance, instructing those
On whom thy robe initiatory falls.
No, not alone amid the world of sense
Shouldst thou voluptuous pick thy dainty way:
The winged one, whose birthright is the sky,
Must not forever cull the sweets of earth.
There is a realm where common eyes ne'er gaze,
Circled with sounds which sensual ears ne'er hear,
Peopled with forms that shrink from finest
touch-

Realm of idea, of mind, of abstract truth.
Toward which we ever journey; mid whose forms,
More real than all we see, or hear, or feel
Of the mere shows which fill this phantom world,
Pre-destin'd man shall dwell eternally.
Material life is short, though stretch'd to doom;
But the long morn of life spiritual

Ends but with GOD. O Spirit! thither bend
Thy youthful wings; for to thy purer eyes
All mental powers, all plastic thoughts, that mould
Mankind and matter to created forms,
Are manifest. If 'tis permitted, thither
Thy votary bear; for I am one whose mind
Has cast the dust of earth from off its plumes,
Nor in this world have wish to compass aught,
Save thee to cherish and exalt for man.
Ah no! upon the future rest mine eyes;
And shadowy hopes, beyond the mystic grave,
Beckon and smile, and lure me gently on;
And point to thoughts unrealized on earth-
To yearnings dim, but seen by Faith's pure eyes-
To vast ideas, the eagle brood of mind,
That beat their sensual bars, and fiercely mourn—
As there existent, with full power and scope
To act their parts, unvex'd by stumbling sense,
That dull-eyed agent of the prison'd soul.

"Tis not for naught we suffer what we feel;
'Tis not for naught we battle, day by day,
With falsehoods whose foul touch disgust the heart;
'Tis not for naught that in this empty show,
This mummery of life, we feign a part,
Or bear the sneers and scoffs of heedless men,
O brother bards! This earth is not your sphere;
And all the loud acclaims of listening crowds
But move the blood, or please the tingling ear,
Not satisfy the soul, whose rushing tide,
At the first swelling, into nothingness
Sweeps the faint vestiges of those who stood
Upon the brink, and wonder'd at its voice.
The world of spirits is the poet's home:
There may his nature first be understood-
Yes, by the souls who now no fellowship
Claim or confess. Or haply, if the flesh,
Like a contagion, cling them e'en in heaven,
And dim their eyes; yet are there those-O Goɔ,
Let me not doubt it!-who may circle us,
And, with congenial thoughts and sympathies,
The thirsting void of love within us fill.

The poet ceased; and down the clamorous brook
I heard his footfall faint and fainter grow.
I turn'd me home; yet, all the way, that man
And his strange song perplex'd my tangled thoughts.

I pictured him a home, and rank, and wealth,
A gentle, loving wife, and children fair-
Fame, and all else which man on earth desires;
And over these I spread the curse of song,
And wither'd them to naught! What mental pain,
What sickness past all cure, what thirsting thoughts,
That come, like beggars pale, relief to ask
At the closed portals of eternity,

Must he endure who framed that troubled song!
Then thank'd I Heaven, and bless'd the bounteous

ONE

Who, in my keeping, gave not power enough To shield from jealous Time my humble name.

TO-DAY the good ship sails,
Across the sparkling sea-
To-day the northern gales

Are blowing swift and free;
Speed, speed her distant way,
To that far land of gold:

A richer prize we seek than they,
The Argonauts of old!

Who goes with us? who quits the tiresome shore,

And sails where Fortune beckons him away; Where in that marvellous land, in virgin ore, The wealth of years is gather'd in a day? Here, toil and trouble are our portion still, And still with want our weary work is paid; Slowly the shillings drop into the till,

Small are the profits of our tedious trade; There, Nature proffers with unstinted hands,

The countless wealth the wide domain confines, Sprinkles the mountain-streams with golden sands, And calls the adventurer to exhaustless mines. Come, then, with us! what are the charms of home, What are the ties of friends or kindred worth? Thither, oh thither, let our footsteps roam

There is the Eden of our fallen earth! Well do we hold the fee of those broad lands Wrested from feebler hands,

By our own sword and spear;

Well may the weeping widow be consoled,
And orphan'd hearts their ceaseless grief withhold;
Well have our brothers shed their life-blood here.
Say, could we purchase at a price too dear,
These boundless acres of uncounted gold?
Come, then! it is to-day,

To-day the good ship sails,

And swift upon her way

Blow out the northern gales.

A twelvemonth more, and we

Our homeward course shall hold,

With richer freight within than theirs,
The Argonauts of old!

Alas! for honest labour from honest ends averted;
Alas! for firesides left, and happy homes deserted.

Brightly the bubble glitters; bright in the distance
The land of promise gleams;

But ah, the phantom fortunes of existence
Live but in dreams!

THE INCOGNITA OF RAPHAEL.*

LONG has the summer sunlight shone
On the fair form, the quaint costume;
Yet nameless still, she sits unknown,

A lady in her youthful bloom.
Fairer for this! no shadows cast
Their blight upon her perfect lot;
Whate'er her future, or her past,

In this bright moment matters not. No record of her high descent

There needs, nor memory of her name: Enough that RAPHAEL'S colours blent

To give her features deathless fame! "Twas his anointing hand that set

The crown of beauty on her brow;
Still lives its earlier radiance yet,
As at the earliest, even now.
"Tis not the ecstasy that glows

In all the rapt CECILIA's grace;
Nor yet the holy, calm repose,

He painted on the Virgin's face.

Less of the heavens, and more of earth,
There lurk within these earnest eyes,
The passions that have had their birth,

And grown beneath Italian skies.

What mortal thoughts, and cares, and dreams, What hopes, and fears, and longings rest, Where falls the folded veil, or gleams

The golden necklace on her breast. What mockery of the painted glow May shade the secret soul within; What griefs from passion's overflow,

What shame that follows after sin!

Yet calm as heaven's serenest deeps

Are those pure eyes, those glances pure; And queenly is the state she keeps, In beauty's lofty trust secure.

And who has stray'd, by happy chance, Through all those grand and pictured halls, Nor felt the magic of her glance,

As when a voice of music calls?

Not soon shall I forget the day-
Sweet day, in spring's unclouded time,
While on the glowing canvass lay

The light of that delicious clime

I mark'd the matchless colours wreathed
On the fair brow, the peerless cheek,
The lips, I fancied, almost breathed

The blessings that they could not speak.
Fair were the eyes with mine that bent
Upon the picture their mild gaze,
And dear the voice that gave consent
To all the utterance of my praise.

* The portrait to which these verses refer is in the Pitti Palace at Florence. It is one of the gems of that admirable

collection.

Oh, fit companionship of thought;
Oh, happy memories, shrined apart;
The rapture that the painter wrought,
The kindred rapture of the heart!

UHLAND.

IT is the poet UHLAND, from whose wreathings
Of rarest harmony I here have drawn,
To lower tones and less melodious breathings,
Some simple strains, of youth and passion born.

His is the poetry of sweet expression,

Of clear, unfaltering tune, serene and strong; Where gentlest thoughts and words, in soft procession,

Move to the even measures of his song.
Delighting ever in his own calm fancies,
He sees much beauty where most men see naught,
Looking at Nature with familiar glances,
And weaving garlands in the groves of thought.
He sings of youth, and hope, and high endeavour,
He sings of love-O crown of poesy !—
Of fate, and sorrow, and the grave, forever
The end of strife, the goal of destiny.

He sings of fatherland, the minstrel's glory,
High theme of memory and hope divine,
Twining its fame with gems of antique story,
In Suabian songs and legends of the Rhine;
In ballads breathing many a dim tradition,

Nourish'd in long belief or minstrel rhymes, Fruit of the old Romance, whose gentle mission Pass'd from the earth before our wiser times. Well do they know his name among the mountains, And plains, and valleys, of his native land; Part of their nature are the sparkling fountains Of his clear, thought, with rainbow fancies spann'd.

His simple lays oft sings the mother cheerful
Beside the cradle in the dim twilight;
His plaintive notes low breathes the maiden tearful
With tender murmurs in the ear of night.

The hillside swain, the reaper in the meadows,
Carol his ditties through the toilsome day;
And the lone hunter in the Alpine shadows
Recalls his ballads by some ruin gray.

O precious gift! O wondrous inspiration!
Of all high deeds, of all harmonious things,
To be the oracle, while a whole nation
Catches the echo from the sounding strings.
Out of the depths of feeling and emotion
Rises the orb of song, serenely bright,
As who beholds, across the tracts of ocean,
The golden sunrise bursting into light.

Wide is its magic world—divided neither
By continent, nor sea, nor narrow zone:
Who would not wish sometimes to travel thither,
In fancied fortunes to forget his own!