ted insensibly to sentiments in the whole system of life, serenity of mind favors peace of soul. Error has no good fruits: when it is allied to moral sentiment, in an unlawful union, the strength, given us to do good, is not only dissipated in useless applications, but is directed against the true end, tormenting others and ourselves under the most honorable pretexts. The false associations of ideas, which impose, under the name of morality, imaginary duties, tend often, by inevitable consequence, to corrupt at the foundation the purity of sentiment that belongs to real duties, for frequent occasions present themselves, in which conventional and factitious precepts are at war with the rules immediately dictated by conscience. Hence, at least, arise perplexities, enfeebling the authority of conscience, if indeed conscience is not stifled by the blind and mechanical force of habit. Can filial piety, in its primitive integrity, possibly exist in the heart of the son; to whom is prescribed as often happens on the coast of Malabar the factitious duty of sacrificing his mother on the tomb of her husband? What an infinity of false consequences and unexpected errors must spring from this one error! Truth need not be feared, when in its place: and can it be out of its place? Morality does not fear profound investigation, if it is but complete; it fears superficial and frivolous views. Good sense is the friend, the guardian of virtue; protecting rectitude of intention, and calmness of heart; fortifying the soul by the plentitude of conviction. Communication with truth preserves security, confidence, constancy, resolution, and dignity of character.
"The Pilgrim they laid in a large upper chamber, whose window opened towards the sun-rising; the name of the chamber was Peace; where he slept till break of day, and then he awoke and sang.' The Pilgrim's Progress.
Now, brighter than the host, that, all night long,
In fiery armor, up the heavens high
Stood watch, thou com'st to wait the morning's song.
Thou com'st to tell me day again is nigh.
Star of the dawning, cheerful is thine eye;
And yet in the broad day it must grow dim.
Thou seem'st to look on me as asking why
My mourning eyes with silent tears do swim;
Thou bid'st me turn to God, and seek my rest in Him.
"Canst thou grow sad,' thou say'st, 'as earth grows bright? And sigh, when little birds begin discourse
In quick, low voices, e'er the streaming light
Pours on their nests, as sprung from day's fresh source?
With creatures innocent thou must, perforce,
A sharer be, if that thine heart be pure.
And holy hour like this, save sharp remorse,
Of ills and pains of life must be the cure,
And breathe in kindred calm, and teach thee to endure.'
I feel its calm. But there's a sombrous hue
Along that eastern cloud of deep, dull red;
Nor glitters yet the cold and heavy dew;
And all the woods and hill-tops stand outspread
With dusky lights, which warmth nor comfort shed.
Still save the bird that scarcely lifts its song→
The vast world seems the tomb of all the dead-
The silent city emptied of its throng,
And ended, all alike, grief, mirth, love, hate, and wrong.
But wrong, and hate, and love, and grief, and mirth
Will quicken soon; and hard, hot toil and strife,
With headlong purpose, shake this sleeping earth
With discord strange, and all that man calls life.
With thousand scattered beauties nature's rife;
And airs, and woods, and streams, breathe harmonies;
Man weds not these, but taketh art to wife;
Nor binds his heart with soft and kindly ties:
He, feverish, blinded, lives, and feverish, sated, dies.
And 'tis because man useth so amiss
Her dearest blessings, Nature seemeth sad;
Else why should she, in such fresh hour as this,
Not lift the veil, in revelation glad,
From her fair face? It is that man is mad!
Then chide me not, clear star, that I repine,
When Nature grieves; nor deem this heart is bad.
Thou look'st towards earth; but yet the heavens are thine; While I to earth am bound: When will the heavens be mine.
If man would but his finer nature learn,
And not in life fantastic lose the sense
Of simpler things; could Nature's features stern
Teach him be thoughtful; then, with soul intense,
I should not yearn for God to take me hence,
But bear my lot, albeit in spirit bowed,
Remembering, humbly, why it is, and whence:
But when I see cold man of reason proud,
My solitude is sad-I'm lonely in the crowd.
But not for this alone, the silent tear
Steals to mine eyes, while looking on the morn,
Nor for this solemn hour:-fresh life is near,—
But all my joys!-they died when newly born.
Thousands will wake to joy; while I, forlorn,
And like the stricken deer, with sickly eye,
Shall see them pass. Breathe calm-my spirit's torn;
Ye holy thoughts, lift up my soul on high!-
Ye hopes of things unseen, the far-off world bring nigh.
And when I grieve, O, rather, let it be
That I-whom nature taught to sit with her
On her proud mountains, by her rolling sea-
Who, when the winds are up, with mighty stir
Of woods and waters, feel the quickening bur
To my strong spirit;-who, as mine own child,
Do love the flower, and in the ragged spur
A beauty see-that I this mother mild
Should leave, and go with Care, and passions fierce and wild!
How suddenly that straight and glittering shaft
Shot 'thwart the earth!-in crown of living fire
Up comes the Day!—as if they conscious quaffed
The sunny flood, hill, forest, city, spire
Laugh in the wakening light.-Go, vain Desire!
The dusky lights have gone; go thou thy way!
And pining Discontent, like them, expire!
Be called my chamber, PEACE, when ends the day;
And let me with the dawn, like PILGRIM, sing and pray!
Ay, thou art welcome-heaven's delicious breath!-
When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf,
And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, And the year smiles as it draws near its death.
Wind of the sunny South!-O, long delay
In the gay woods and in the golden air,Like to a good old age, released from care, Journeying, in long serenity, away.
In such a bright late quiet, would that I
Might wear out life, like thee, 'mid bowers and brooks, And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks,
And music of kind voices ever nigh;
And, when my last sand twinkled in the glass,
Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass.
Ay, thou art for the grave; thy glances shine
Too lightly to shine long; another spring
Shall deck her for men's eyes, but not for thine,
Sealed in a sleep which knows no wakening.
The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf,
Nor the vexed ore a mineral of power,
And they who love thee wait in anxious grief
Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour.
Glide softly to thy rest then; death should come
Gently to one of gentle mould like thee,
As light winds, wandering through groves of bloom,
Detach the delicate blossom from the tree.
Close thy sweet eyes calmly, and without pain;
And we will trust in God to see thee yet again.
'I THOUGHT IT SLEPT.'
I SAW the infant cherub-soft it lay,
As it was wont, within its cradle, now
Decked with sweet smelling flowers. A sight so strange
Filled my young breast with wonder, and I gazed
Upon the babe the more. I thought it slept-
And yet its little bosom did not move!
I bent me down to look into its eyes,
But they were closed; then softly clasped its hand;
But mine it would not clasp. What should I do?
'Wake, brother, wake!' I then, impatient, cried;
'Open thine eyes, and look on me again!'
He would not hear my voice. All pale beside
My weeping mother sat, 'and gazed and looked
Unutterable things.' 'Will he not wake?'
I eager asked. She answered but with tears.
Her eyes on me, at length, with piteous look,
Were cast-now on the babe once more were fixed-
And now on me: then, with convulsive sigh
And throbbing heart, she clasped me in her arms,
And, in a tone of anguish, faintly said-
'My dearest boy, thy brother does not sleep;
Alas! he's dead; he never will awake.'
He's dead! I knew not what it meant, but more
To know I sought not. For the words so sad-
'He never will awake'-sunk in my soul:
I felt a pang unknown before; and tears,
That angels might have shed, my heart dissolved.
TO THE EVENING WIND.
SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day,
Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow;
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play,
Riding all day the wild blue waves till now,
Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray,
And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee
To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea!
Nor I alone—a thousand bosoms round
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight;
And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night;
And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound,
Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight.
Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth,
God's blessing breathe upon the fainting earth!
Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest,
Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse
The wide old wood from his majestic rest,
Summoning from the innumerable boughs
The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast;
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows
The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass,
And 'twixt the o'ershadowing branches and the grass,
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