627. GENIUS. The favorite idea of a genius among us, is of one, who never studies, or who studies nobody can tell when; at midnight, or at odd times, and intervals, and now and then strikes out, "at a heat," as the phrase is, some wonderful production. This is a character that has figured largely in the history of our literature, in the person of our Fieldings, our Savages, and our Steeles: "loose fellows about town, or loungers in the country," who slept in ale-houses, and wrote in bar-rooms; who took up the pen as a magician's wand, to supply their wants, and, when the pressure of necessity was relieved, resorted again to their carousals. Your real genius is an idle, irregular, vagabond sort of personage; who muses in the fields, or dreams by the fireside: whose strong impulses that is the cant of it-must needs hurry him into wild irregularities, or foolish eccentricity; who abhors order, and can bear no restraint, and eschews all iabor; such a one as Newton or Milton! What! they must have been irregular, else they were no geniuses. "The young man," it is often said, "has genius enough, if he would only study." Now, the truth is, as I shall take the liberty to state it, that the genius will study; it is that in the mind which does study: that is the very nature of it. I care not to say, that it will always use books. All study is not reading, any more than all reading is study.

Attention it is, though other qualities belong to this transcendent power,-attention it is, that is the very soul of genius; not the fixed eye, not the poring over a book, but the fixed thought. It is, in fact, an action of the mind, which is steadily concentrated upon one idea, or one series of ideas, which collects, in one point, the rays of the soul, till they search, penetrate and fire the whole train of its thoughts. And while the fire burns within, the outside may be indeed cold, indifferent, negligent, absent in appearance; he may be an idler, or a wanderer, apparently without aim, or intent; but still the fire burns within. And what though "it bursts forth," at length, as has been said, "like volcanic fires, with spontaneous, original, native force?" It only shows the intense action of the elements beneath. What though it breaks forth-like lightning from the cloud? The electric fire had been collecting in the firmament, through many a silent, clear, and calm day. What though the might of genius appears in one decisive blow, struck in some moment of high debate, or at the crisis of a nation's peril! That mighty energy, though it may have heaved in the breast of Demosthenes, was once a feeble infant thought. A mother's eye watched over its dawnings. A father's care guarded its early youth. It soon trod, with youthful steps, the halls of learning, and found other fathers to wake, and to watch for it, even as it finds them here. It went on; but silence was upon its path, and the deep strugglings of the inward soul silently ministered to it. The elements around breathed upon it, and "touched it to finer issues." The golden ray of heaven fell upon it, and ripened its expanding faculties. The slow revolutions of years slowly added to its colJected energies and treasures; till, in its hour of glory, it stood forth imbodied in the form of living, commanding, irresistible eloquence. The world wonders at the manifestation, and says, "Su ange, strange that it should come

[fact,

and so forth-"Why, yes; the thing's a Though, in regard to number, not exact; It was not two black crows, 'twas only one; . The truth of that, you may depend upon, The gentleman himself told me the case. [place" "Where may I find him?" "Why, in such a Away he goes, and, having found him out,"Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt." Then, to his last informant, he referred, And begged to know if true, what he had heard. "Did you, sir, throw up a black crow?" "Not I!" "Bless me! how people propagate a lie! [one, Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and And here I find, at last, all comes to none! Did you say nothing of a crow at all?" "Crow-crow-perhaps I might, now I recall The matter over." "And pray, sir, what was 't?" "Why, I was horrid sick, and, at the last, I did throw up, and told my neighbor so, Something that was as black, sir, as a crow."

THE HIGHEST OCCUPATION OF GENIUS. To

diffuse useful information, to farther intellectual refinement, sure forerunners of moral im provement, to hasten the coming of that bright day, when the dawn of general knowledge shall chase away the lazy, lingering mists, even from the base of the great social pyramid; this, indeed, is a high calling, in which the most well press onward, eager to bear a part. splendid talents and consummate virtue may

How soon-time-flies away! yet, as I watch it, Methinks, by the slow progress of this hand, I should have liv'd an age-since yesterday, And have an age to live. Still, on it creeps, Each little moment at another's heels, Of such small parts as these, and men look back, Worn and bewilder'd, wondering-how it is. Thou travel'st-like a ship, in the wide ocear, Which hath no bounding shore to mark its progress O TIME! ere long, I shall have done with thee.

634. SAILOR BOY'S DREAM.

In slumbers of midnight, the sailor boy lay;

His hammock swung loose, at the sport of the wind;
But watch-worn, and weary, his cares flew away,
And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind.
He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bowers,
And pleasure that waited on life's merry morn;
While memory-stood sideways, half covered with flowers,
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn.
Then fancy, her magical pinions spread wide,
And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise-
Now far, far behind him, the green waters glide,
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes.
The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch,

Lad the swallow sings sweet, from her nest in the wall;

all trembling with transport, he raises the latch,

And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.

A father bends o'er him, with looks of delight,

His cheek is impearled, with a mother's warm tear,
And the lips of the boy, in a love-kiss unite,

With the lips of the maid, whom his bosom holds dear
The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast,

Joy quickens his pulse-all his hardships seem o'er
And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest-
"O God, thou hast blessed me-I ask for no more."
Ah, what is that flame which now bursts on his eye!
Ah, what is that sound, which now larums his ear!
'Tis the lightning's red glare, painting hell on the sky!
"Tis the crash of the thunder, the groan of the sphere
He springs from his hammock-he flies to the deck,
Amazement confronts him with images dire-
Wild winds, and waves drive the vessel a wreck-
The masts fly in splinters-the shrouds are on fire!
Like mountains, the billows tremendously swell-
In vain the lost wretch calls on Mary to save;
Unceen hands of spirits are wringing his knell,
And the death-angel flaps his broad wing o'er the wave!
Oh! sailor boy, woe to thy dream of delight!

In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss-
Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright,
Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss!
Oh! sailor boy! sailor boy! never again

Shall home, love, or kindred, thy wishes repay;
Unblessed, and unhonored, down deep in the main,
Full many a score fathom, thy frame shall decay.
No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee,

Or redeem form, or frame, from the merciless surge;
But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be,
And winds, in the midnight of winter, thy dirge.
On beds of green sea-flower, thy limbs shall be laid ;
Around thy white bones, the red coral shall grow;
Of thy fair yellow locks, threads of amber be made,
And every part suit to thy mansion below.
Days, months, years, and ages, shall circle away,
And the vast waters over thy body shall roll-
Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye-

Oh! sailor boy! sailor boy! peace to thy soul.-Dimond. TIME AND ITS CHANGES. Reformation is a work of time. A national taste, however wrong it may be, cannot be totally changed at once; we must yield a little to the prepos session, which has taken hold on the mind, and we may then bring people to adopt what would offend them, if endeavored to be introduced by violence.

What's fame a fancied life in other's breath,
A thing bevond us, e'en before our death.
All fame foreign, but of true desert,
Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart;
One self-approving hour, whole years outweighs
Of stupid starers, and of loud hussas :
And more true joy, Marcellus-exil'd, feels,
Thar: Cesar, with a senate at his heels.

Mind, not money-makes the man

635.

CHILD HAROLD.-CANTO I
Oh! that the desert-were my dwelling place,
With one fair spirit-for my minister
That I might all forget the human race,
And hating no one, love but only her!
Ye elements!-in whose ennobling stir,
I feel myself exalted-Can ye not
Accord me such a being? Do I err
In deeming such-inhabit many a spot
Though with them to converse, can rarely be to los
There is a pleasure-in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture-on the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:

I love not man the less, but nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle-with the Universe, and feel

What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal
Roll on, thou deep, and dark blue ocean-roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin-his control
Stops with the shore ;-upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own;
When for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths, with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknowa
The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble, in their capitals,
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator, the vain title take-
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war!
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
Alike, the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar
Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee-
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
Thy waters wasted them, while they were free.
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts :-not so thou-
Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' play-
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow-
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thoa rollest now
Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty & form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
(Calm, or convulsed, in breeze, or gale, or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime,
Dark-heaving,)-boundless, endless, and sublime
The image of Eternity-the throne

Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made! each zone
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alcno.
And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne like the bubbles, onward; from a boy,

I wantoned with thy breakers-they to me
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
Made them a terror-'twas a pleasing fear,
For I was, as it were, a child of thee,
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane-as I do here.

[fits.

In the dreams of delight, which with ardor we
Oft the phantom of sorrow appears; [seek,
And the roses of pleasure, which bloom on your
Must be steeped in the dew of your tears. [cheek,
The aged man, that coffers up his gold,
Is plagu'd with cramps, and gouts, and painfu
And scarce hath eyes, his treasure to behold,
But still, like pining Tantalus, he sits,
And useless bans the harvest of his wits,
Having no other pleasure of his gain,
But torment, that it cannot cure his pain.
To err-is human; to forgive-divino.

636. PATRIOTIC TRIUMPH. The citizens of America-celebrate that day, which gave birth to their liberties. The recollection of this event, replete with consequences so beneficial to mankind, swells every heart with joy, and fills every tongue with praise. We celebrate, not the sanguinary exploits of a tyrant, to subjugate, and enslave-millions of his fellow-creatures; we celebrate, neither the birth, nor the coronation, of that phantom, styled a king; but, the resurrection of liberty, the emancipation of mankind, the regeneration of the world. These are the sources of our joy, these the causes of our triumph. We pay no homage at the tomb of kings, to sublime our feelings-we trace no line of illustrious ancesters, to support our dignity-we recur to no usages sanctioned by the authority of the great, to protect our rejoicing; no. we love liberty, we glory in the rights of men, we glory in independence. On whatever part of God's creation a human form pines under chains, there, Americans drop their tears.

A dark cloud once shaded this beautiful quarter of the globe. Consternation, for awhile, agitated the hearts of the inhabitants. War desolated our fields, and buried our vales in blood. But the dayspring from on high soon opened upon us its glittering portals. The angel of liberty descending, dropped on Washington's brow, the wreath of victory, and stamped on American freedom, the seal of omnipotence. The darkness is past, and the true light now shines-to enliven, and rejoice mankind. We tread a new earth, in which dwelleth righteousness; and view a new heaven, flaming with inextinguishable stars. Our feet will no more descend into the vale of oppressions; our shoulders will no more bend-under the weight of a foreign domination, as cruel, as it was unjust. Well may we rejoice-at the return of this glorious anniversary; a day dear to every American; a day-to be had in everlasting remembrance; a day, whose light circulates joy-through the hearts of all republicans, and terror through the hearts of all tyrants.-Maxy.

637.

TIT FOR TAT: COQUETRY PUNISHED.
Ellen was fair, and knew it too,
As other village beauties do,

Whose mirrors-never lie;
Secure of any swain she chose,
She smiled on half a dozen beaux,
And, reckless of a lover's woes,
She cheated these, and taunted those;
"For how could any one suppose

A clown could take her eye?"
But whispers through the village ran,
That Edgar was the happy man,

The maid design'd to bless;
For, wheresover moved the fair,

The youth was, like her shadow, there,
And rumor-boldly match'd the pair,
For village folks will guess.
Edgar did love, but still delay'd
To make confession to the maid,
So bashful was the youth;
But let the flame in secret burn,
Certain of meeting a return,

When, from his lips, the fair should learn,
Officially, the truth

At length, one morn, to taste the air,
The youth and maid, in cne horse chair,
A long excursion took.

Edgar had nerved his bashful heart,
The sweet confession to impart,
For ah! suspense had caused a smart,
He could no longer brook.

He drove, nor slackened once his reins,
Till Hempstead's wide extended plains
Seem'd join'd to skies above:
Nor house, nor tree, nor shrub was near
The rude and dreary scene to cheer,
Nor soul within ten miles to hear-
And still, poor Edgar's silly fear,

Forbade to speak of love.

At last, one desperate effort broke
The bashful spell, and Edgar spoke,
With most persuasive tone;
Recounted past attendance o'er,

A

then, by all that's lovely, swore, That he would love, for evermore,

If she'd become his own. The maid, in silence, heard his prayer, Then, with a most provoking air,

She, tittered in his face;
And said, ""Tis time for you to know,
A lively girl must have a beau,
Just like a reticule-for show;
And at her nod to come, and go—

But he should know his place.
Your penetration must be dull,
To let a hope within your skull

Of matrimony spring.
Your wife! ha, ha! upon my word,
The thought is laughably absurd,
As anything I ever heard-

I never dream'd of such a thing." The lover sudden dropp'd his rein, Now on the centre of the plain

"The linch-pin's out!" he cried; Be pleased, one moment, to alight, Till I can set the matter right,

That we may safely ride." He said, and handed out the fairThen laughing, crack'd his whip in air, And wheeling round his horse and cha.r, Exclaim'd, "Adieu, I leave you there