Fair wert thou, with the light

On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast,
From purple skies ne'er deepening into night,
Yet soft, as if each moment were their last
Of glory, fading fast

Along the mountains! — but thy golden day
Was not as those that warn us of decay.

And ever, through thy shades,
A swell of deep Eolian sound went by,
From fountain-voices in their secret glades,
And low reed-whispers, making sweet reply
To summer's breezy sigh!

And young leaves trembling to the wind's light breath,
Which ne'er had touched them with a hue of death!

And thy transparent sky

Rang as a dome, all thrilling to the strain
Of harps that 'midst the woods, made harmony
Solemn and sweet; yet troubling not the brain
With dreams and yearnings vain,

And dim remembrances, that still draw birth
From the bewildering music of the earth.

But who, with silent tread,

Moved o'er the plains of waving asphodel?
Who, called and severed from the countless dead,
Amidst the shadowy amaranth-bowers might dwell,
And listen to the swell

Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale
The spirit wandering in the immortal gale?

With the bright wine at nations' feasts, went round!
They of the lyre, whose unforgotten lays
On the morn's wing had sent their mighty sound,
And in all regions found

Their echoes 'midst the mountains ! — and become
In man's deep heart, as voices of his home!

They of the daring thought!

Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied;

Whose flight through stars, and seas, and depths had sought

The soul's far birthplace, but without a guide!

Sages and seers, who died,

And left the world their high mysterious dreams,
Born 'midst the olive-woods, by Grecian streams.

But they, of whose abode

'Midst her green valleys earth retained no trace,
Save a flower springing from their burial-sod,
A shade of sadness on some kindred face, -
A void and silent place

In some sweet home; thou hadst no wreaths for these,
Thou sunny land! with all thy deathless trees.

The peasant, at his door

Might sink to die, when vintage-feasts were spread,
And songs on every wind! - From thy bright shore
No lovelier vision floated round his head ;-

Thou wert for nobler dead!

He heard the bounding steps which round him fell,
And sighed to bid the festal sun farewell!

Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast
Shut up the woes and burning thoughts of years,
As in the ashes of an urn compressed, -
He might not be thy guest!
No gentle breathings from thy distant sky
Came o'er his path and whispered "Liberty!"

Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier,

Unlike a gift of nature to decay,

Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear,
The child at rest before its mother lay;

Even so to pass away,

With its bright smile! - Elysium! what wert thou
To her, who wept o'er that young slumberer's brow!

Thou hadst no home, green land!

For the fair creature from her bosom gone,
With life's first flowers just opening in her hand,
And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown,
Which in its clear eye shone

Like the spring's waking! But that light was past-
Where went the dew-drop, swept before the blast?

Not where thy soft winds played,
Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep!

Fade, with thy bowers, thou land of visions, fade!
From thee no voice came o'er the gloomy deep,
And bade man cease to weep!

Fade, with the amaranth-plain, the myrtle-grove
Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love!

For the most loved are they,

Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion-voice
In regal halls! the shades o'erhang their way;
The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice;
And gentle hearts rejoice

Around their steps! till silently they die,
As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye.

And the world knows not then,

Not then, nor ever, what pure thoughts are fled!
Yet these are they, that on the souls of men
Come back, when Night her folding veil hath spread,
The long-remembered dead!

But not with thee might aught save glory dwell: —
Fade, fade away, thou shore of asphodel!

EXERCISE CLXXXIV.

THE EXISTENCE OF GOD.

Fenelon, translated by Mrs. Follen.

LET us follow the traces of the Divinity through what are called the works of nature. We may observe, at the firs glance, an All-powerful hand, that is the first mover of every thing, in every part of the universe. The heavens, the earth, the stars; plants, animals; our bodies, our spirits; - all discover an order, a nice arrangement, a skill, a wisdom far superior to our own, a wisdom which is the soul of the whole world, and which conducts every thing to its destined end, with a gentle and insensible, but all-powerful sway. We see, if we may so speak, — the architecture of the universe, the just proportion of all its parts; and one look is enough to

discover to us,—in an insect, yet more than in the sun, a wisdom and a power that shine forth in its meanest works. These are views that would strike the most ignorant. What would be our impressions, if we could enter the secrets of the material world; if we could dissect the internal parts of animals, and observe their perfect mechanism? Every *hing, then, in the universe, bears the marks of the Divinity, and man more than all the rest.

It often happens, that what appears like a defect to our limited vision, viewed separately from the whole, gives a beauty to the general design, for the perception of which we do not possess that enlargement and simplicity of mind, by which alone we could comprehend the perfection of the whole. Does it not often happen, that we hastily condemn parts of the works of men, because we have not sufficiently penetrated into the whole extent of their designs? It is the same with the great features of the providence of God, delineated in the government of the world for so many ages. It is only the whole that can be intelligible; and the whole is too vast for a near view.

The hand of God is displayed everywhere, even in the worm; and weakness and nothingness are discoverable everywhere, even in the most sublime geniuses. Let us study this visible creation as we will; take the anatomy of the meanest animal; look at the smallest grain of corn that is planted in the earth, and the manner in which its germ produces and multiplies; observe attentively the rose-bud, how carefully it opens to the sun, and closes at his setting; and we shall see more skill and design than in all the works of man. What we call human art, is only a feeble imitation of the great art which we call the laws of nature, and which impiety has not been ashamed to call blind chance.

Can we be astonished that poets have animated all nature; that they have given wings to the winds, and darts to the sun; that they have painted rivers hastening to precipitate themselves into the sea; and trees that reach the clouds, to overcome the rays of the sun by the thickness of their foliage? These figures have been adopted, even in common conversation; so natural is it for man to feel the power and skill with which the universe is filled.

Poetry has only attributed to inanimate things, the design of the Creator. The language of the poets gave rise to the theology of the pagans; their theologians were poets. They imagined a power, a wisdom, in objects the most entirely

destitute of intelligence. With them, the rivers were gods, and the fountains were naiads; the woods and the mountains had their particular divinities; the flowers were subject to Flora, and the fruits to Pomona.

The more enlarged our minds are, when we contemplate nature, the more we discover of that inexhaustible wisdom which is the soul of the universe. Then do we see the Infinite Creator represented in all his works, as in a mirror, to the contemplation of his intelligent offspring.

EXERCISE CLXXXV.

CHARACTER OF FENELON.
Translated from Saint-Simon.

THIS prelate was a tall, spare man, of a good figure, the eyes full of fire and most expressive of sense and talent. I have never seen any thing like his countenance; and having once seen it, it was impossible to forget it. It was full of contraries. There were gravity and gallantry, seriousness and gayety; it was as appropriate to the man of learning as the bishop, to the bishop as the man; above all, there shone forth in it, as in all the rest of his person, an air of perfect grace, decorum, delicacy, mind, and, more than any thing, nobleness. It required an effort to take your eyes from him. All his portraits are speaking, without, however, catching the exact harmony which reigned in the original, or the various delicate shades of character collected in his face.

His manners corresponded with his appearance; his ease communicated itself to others; there were, moreover, an air and a good taste that are only acquired by mixing with the best society and the great world, which diffused themselves over all his conversation; along with which a natural eloquence, gentle yet flowery, an insinuating politeness, at the same time noble and discriminative; an elocution neat, easy and agreeable: every thing appeared, as it fell from him, clear and perspicuous; even matters which in other hands would have been thought embarrassed and obscure. He seemed

never to wish to appear a wiser man than the one he was conversing with; he put himself within the reach of his auditor, without letting him perceive it, so that the effect was