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for there is nothing of a glowing character to be found in morality. Its object is to moderate and calm, and not to give ardour and energy to our feelings and passions ; but without a high tone of feeling or passion there is neither glow nor energy.
Who sleeps below? who sleeps below?
It is a question idle all!
Say, do they heed, or hear thy call ?
A hundred summer suns have showered
Their fostering warmth, and radiance bright;
With piercing floods, and hues of night,
Say did he come from east, from west ?
From southern climes, or where the pole, With frosty sceptre, doth arrest
The howling billows, as they roll ? Within what realm of peace or strife, Did he first draw the breath of life?
Was he of high or low degree?
Did grandeur smile upon his lot?
Dwelt he within some lonely cot,
Say, died he ripe, and full of years
Bowded down and bent by hoary eld,
And the dim'eye-ball sight withheld;
Were vanish'd like a morning dream;
And scatter'd in oblivion's stream;
Or, mid the summer of his years,
When round him throng'd his children young, When bright eyes gush'd with burning tears,
And anguish dwelt on every tongue,
Or, mid the sunshine of his spring
Came the swift bolt that dash'd him down, When she, his chosen, blossoming
In beauty, deem'd him all her own, And forward look'd to happier years Than ever blessed their vale of tears?
Perhaps he perished for the faith,
One of that persecuted band,
To free from mental thrall the land,
Say, was he one to science blind,
A groper in earth’s dungeon dark?
Did in the fair creation mark
Hush, wild surmise !-'tis vain—'tis vain
The summer flowers in beauty blow,
O'er some old bones that rot below;
Then what is life, when thus we see
No trace remains of life's career?
A moral lesson gloweth here;
What doth it matter then, if thus,
Without a stone, without a name,
We float not on the breath of fame;
And earthly coils it bursts away;
And spurning off its bonds of clay,
Do good; shun evil; live not thou,
As if at death thy being died; Nor error's syren voice allow
To draw thy steps from truth aside ; Look to thy journey's end the grave ! And trust in Him whose arm can save.
THERE may be poetry without nature, and nature without poetry; that is, a thought may be expressed poetically though it is false, and a thought may be true though not expressed poetically. In the following lines, we believe every sentiment is at once natural and poetic at the same time. There is always great danger in attempting to throw a diviner charm over the beauty of woman, by images drawn from sensible, or inanimate nature; at least few poets have succeeded in the application of such images; but we think the
comparison in the last lines, between the “ lights gleaming around the brow" of the fair and the summer sky, is both happy and natural.
A form so lovely as thine own;
Humility would fix her throne.
Too well their owners knew their pow'r,
The sun emits at noon-tide's hour:
Too proud to veil a single ray,