But what is their value-these old relics of error and superstition? Nothing, to him that has not a soul to be touched by the simple expression of feeling, whose heart never warms in contemplating the beautiful, who cannot overlook the imperfections of early efforts, but with cynic disposition, snaps at the effusions his own mind could never have poured forth. There are those who would tear every flower from the rough path of life-the earliest of spring, as well as the plant of centuries. For them no music sounds in the homely ballad. But there is music there, and it vibrates on the strings of the soul, which nature has tuned with her own hand. To the lover of history, also, they present a most interesting field of study. They are the treasury of ancient manners. The historian dwells in the palace, and takes his station beside the throne; he enters the national council, and attends the leaders of the armies; but he seldom descends among the people to depict the customs and feelings of lowly life. But the rude singer had a humble walk, and he makes the common manners the tissue of his song. But they are chiefly interesting as the germ of English literature. They have been studied deeply by the master spirits of our language. The immortal bard of Avon drew from them much of his inspiration; they floated in the marvelous fancy of Scotland's plough-boy poet; and the wizard of the North oft invoked their aid, when stretching forth his magic wand, he threw enchantment over many a spot in the past. They come with these commendations to our attention, to our study. At least, they promise to fill an hour with pleasure and instruction; to wake in the mind plunging into grave studies, its early feelings, and throw a kind of romantic spell over the "olden times."

SONG OF THE PLEIADES.

We are sisters seven-our lot is on high,
To circle and shine through the wide, wide sky,
Begemming the bosom of even.

No voice of alarm ever startles our fear,

For earth's loud commotion-it reaches not here;
And we ever roll on, in our own blest sphere,
Through the azure halls of heaven.

From the rude glare of Morn our eyelids we close,
And retired in cerulean bowers repose-

Not a sorrow our hearts ever grieving

Till the coming of evening again we discern,

And the silver-faced planets begin to return;

Then our torches we light, and away while they burn,
The star-dance merrily weaving.

Through the cold we look down, and like diamonds bright,

Do we sparkle and flame in the brow of the night,

Away where the frost never freezes ;

In mid summer's glow, too, our vigils we keep,
And in at the curtains our bright eyes peep,
On the coy young maid as she lies in her sleep,
And smiles at the kiss of the breezes.

LITERARY CURIOSITY.*

[Copy of a letter addresssed by Professor Strong to the Freshman Class, in Yale College, in 1775, expressing his thanks for a suit of clothes, which they had presented him.]

Classi Recentium in Collegio Yalensi : Salutem.

Humanissimi et optimae spei Juvenes :

Quum sit a vobis hodie munus sumptuosum et perquam nitidum mihi oblatum, idem ut pignus vestrae ergo me benevolentiae laetissime accipio, et summa gratitudine amplector. Ingratus quidem fuero, vestrae hujus munificentiae si unquam obliviscar et grata memoria non semper recordabor. Floreatis, Juvenes amandi, semperque floreat tota classis sub auspiciis benignissimis vestri Tutoris literatissimi.†

Virtutem et pietatem prae omnibus colite, Deum veneramini, et ea in quibus nunc estis studia diligentissime (ut facitis) persequemini, ut et vobis ipsis honori, parentibus aliisque amicis gaudio, rebusque publicis emolumento esse possitis. Et quamdiu inter hosce parietes Academicos versamini, et has sedes Musarum amoenissimas incolitis, nunquam vobis in ulla re vel petentibus, vel rogantibus, defuero; sed contra, quantopere potuero, vestram felicitatem ac utilitatem edocendo et ad ingenuas excolendas artes et scientias cohortando promovere conabor. Et Deus Optimus Maximus faciat ut quamdiu hujus Academiae alumni exstiteritis, vitas ducatis suavissimas; et quum vitam academicam, cursum scilicet quadriennium, perageritis, fructus vestrae industriae copiosissimos recipiatis, et in saecula saeculorum vita beatifica in coelis perpetuo perfruamini omnes.

Pupilli dilectissimi, pro hac vestra generositate eximia, etsi receptis beneficiis haud pares vel dignas, sincerissime tamen amplissimas nunc remitto ad vos gratias.

Sic rescribit,

NEHEMIAS STRONG.

Y. C., Julii 25to, 1775.

* This article was accompanied by the following note, addressed to the Editors: Gentlemen,-The following literary curiosity was handed me a few days since by the venerable Dr. Webster, and seems worthy, as a reminiscence of college life, to find a place on the pages of your Magazine. ALUMNUS.

The Rev. Joseph Buckminster, afterwards a minister in Portsmouth, N. H.

STANZAS.

I STOOD within a "place of graves," beside a monument

That bore a name I once had loved; and o'er the hillock leant
A blushing rose, that gently shed its perfume on the air,

Yet drooped its head, as if it mourned for one that slumbered there.

I would have plucked it in its bloom, for sweet it were to keep
A flower, that, in its pride, had watched that fair one's holy sleep,
But that I deemed 'twere sad to see the friendly blossom fade,
That once had bloomed in loveliness, where slept the buried maid.

And it were sacrilege, I ween, all carelessly to take
The flower that, meeting other eyes, shall tearful memories wake.
I could not of its beauty rob the grave where beauty sleeps,
Upon whose blushing buds distil the tears that nature weeps.

Oh no, I could not rudely pluck the rose that, budding there,
Had made the dwelling of the dead appear to me so fair;
It may be that some sister soul delights to watch its bloom,
And smiles amid her tears, to see the guardian of the tomb.

No, let it shed its fragrance here, and here its leaves be strown
Upon her consecrated grave, for whom it bloomed alone;
'Tis hallowed by the mourner's tear; its hues can only grace
The sacred spot on which it grew-the maiden's resting place.

POETRY AND PHYSICAL SCIENCE.

PHYSICAL Science, some maintain, is constantly invading the domain of poetry: removing the materials for its nobler creations; and limiting the sources of its influence and power. The opinion evidently has its rise in a misconception of the true elements of the poet's art-the sources of his inspiration. Science aims to unfold hidden facts-to expose error-to dispel ignorance by the light of discovery. Unless, then, mystery and error are essential ingredients, or the ground-work of poetry, Science is not its foe. We believe that "Truth is the great quickener and inspirer;" that the substitution of fact for theory or conjecture, sacrifices neither beauty, grandeur, nor power; consequently, that the truths which Science brings to light are more agreeable to the mind-better suited to the poet's use in rearing the fabric of his song. We consider that the discoveries of Physical Science have greatly extended the

province of poetry; unfolded new forms of Truth and Beauty; multiplied poetic themes; and furnished rich and ample stores of imagery and illustration. They have removed, as it were, the barriers which confined the mind to this nether world, and let it free to explore the outer regions of creation, whence it returns with enlarged conceptions of the extent and glory of the universe with heightened reverence for the Creator, in view of His fathomless wisdom and Almighty power.

From its connection with our subject, we notice, in the first place, that view of poetry which makes it the product of an early and a dark age; which maintains, that "as civilization advances, poetry almost necessarily declines." Macauley, in his article on Milton, we think, has broached on this subject doctrines which poorly comport with his fame as a critic, or with his brilliant and nervous style. He throws around the theory above mentioned, the charm of a striking illustration, admirably fitted to lead astray. I allude to his well-known comparison of poetry to the magic lantern; a passage apparently modeled after his own idea of poetry; to which, he says, "truth is essential, but it is the truth of madness-the reasonings are just, but the premises are false." In his view, no poet ever triumphed over greater difficulties than Milton. Because, forsooth," He received a learned education; was a profound and elegant classical scholar; was initiated into all the mysteries of Rabbinical literature; and intimately acquainted with every language of modern Europe, from which either pleasure or information was then to be derived." Serious stumbling blocks, indeed, in the road to poetic fame! Wonder of wonders, that "the fire of Milton's mind not only was not suffocated beneath the weight of its own fuel, but penetrated the whole superincumbent mass with its own heat and radiance!" Strange, passing strange, that the great poet could so completely triumph over the disadvantage of living in an age of light! The truth is, no one, without inverting the instrument of his mental vision, can fail to perceive, that it is this very discipline of mindthis refinement of taste-this mass of information-this wonderful command of language, imagery, illustration-that gives its glory to every page-that gilds every line of Paradise Lost.

Knowledge, then, in its extended sense, we consider essential to the poet. That comprehensiveness of view, which brings within its field of vision the whole history of humanity; which fathoms the depths of the human mind, and traces to their source the passions and emotions of the soul; which ponders deeply the volume of creation, written with the finger of God, in characters of living light, and stamped with the impress of eternal truth.