And I saw how the depths of his manly soul And nobly his pledge he kept- And his march was ever on! Oh! deeply and long shall his loss be wept, There were heralds of the cross, By his bed of death that stood, And heard how he counted all but loss, For the gain of his Savior's blood; And patiently waited his Master's voice, Let it call him when it would. The good old man is gone! An apostle chair is void; There is dust on his mitre thrown, And the fold of his love he has left alone, To account for its care to God. The wise old man is gone! His honored head lies low, And his thoughts of power are done, And his voice's manly flow, And the pen that, for truth, like a sword was drawn, Is still and soulless now. The brave old man is gone! With his armor on, he fell ;* Nor a groan nor a sigh was drawn, When his spirit fled, to tell; For mortal sufferings, keen and long, Had no power his heart to quell. The good old man is gone! He is gone to his saintly rest, And no trouble can molest: For his crown of life is won, And the dead in Christ are blessed! *The bishop was at that time (ten days before his death) employing the little strength he had in revising his MSS. for publication. By them, though dead, he will yet speak. The Life of God in the Soul of Man.-DANA.* Canst guess what deep content, in turn, they give? More than thou e'er canst sum. Thou'lt nothing lack, E'en let it flow, and make the places glad Where dwell thy fellow men. Should'st thou be sad, *We are disposed to rank Mr. Dana at the head of all the American poets, not excepting Bryant; and we think this is the judgment which posterity will pass upon his writings. Not because he is superior to all others in the elegance of his language, and in the polished beauty and finish of his compositions: in these respects, Bryant has, in this country, no equal and Mr. Dana is often careless in the dress of his thoughts. Not because, in the same kind and class of composition to which Bryant has principally confined his genius, he would be superior, or even equal to this delightful writer: for the genius and style of Bryant are peculiarly suited to the accurate and exquisite description of what is beautiful in nature; and, what is more, he unites with this power the spirit of gentle human feeling, and sometimes a rich, grand, and solemn philosophy: it will be long ere any one breathes forth the soul of poetry in a finer strain than that to the evening wind; and Coleridge himself could hardly have written a nobler "Thanatopsis." But Mr. Dana has attempted and proved successful in a higher and more difficult range of poetry; he exhibits loftier powers, and his compositions agitate the soul with a deeper emotion. His language, without being so beautiful and finished, is yet more vivid, concise, and alive and informed with meaning. His descriptions of natural objects may not pass before the mind with such sweet harmony, but they often present, in a single line, a whole picture before the imagination, with a vividness and power of compression which are astonishing. For instance; And again; "But when the light winds lie at rest, "The ship works hard; the seas run high; Their white tops, flashing through the night, That now, upon the water, dances, now, Is it not lovely? Tell me, where doth dwell And if, indeed, 'tis not the outward state, Our sins our nobler faculties debase, And make the earth a spiritual waste Unto the soul's dimmed eye :-'tis man, not earth- Give to the eager, straining eye, A wild and shifting light." Again, as a more general instance, and a more sublime one; speaking of the prospect of immortality : ""Tis in the gentle moonlight; "Tis floating 'midst day's setting glories; Night, Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step, Comes to our bed, and breathes it in our ears: Night, and the dawn, bright day, and thoughtful eve, All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse, AJ one vast mystic instrument, are touched By an unseen living hand, and conscious chords In these respects,-in the power of giving in one word, as it were, a whole picture, in his admirable skill in the perspective, and in the faculty of chaining down the vast and the infinite to the mind's observation, he reminds us both of Collins and of Milton. We have not space hero, in a note, to illustrate the resemblance, by instances which would show our meaning, and his merits, better than a whole chapter of criticism. But, above all, we admire Mr. Dana, more than any other American poet, because he has aimed not merely to please the imagination, but to rouse up the soul to a solemn consideration of its future destinies. We admire him, because his poetry is full of benevolent, affectionate, domestic feeling; but, more than this, because it is full of religious feeling. The fountain which gushes here has mingled with the "well of water springing up to everlasting life." The aspirations breathed forth in this poetry are humble, earnest desires after that holiness, "without which no man shall see God." It speaks of a better land of rest, "but bids us turn to God, and seek our rest in Him."-ED. The earth is full of life: the living Hand Touched it with life; and all its forms expand With principles of being made to suit Man's varied powers, and raise him from the brute. And shall the earth of higher ends be full? Earth which thou tread'st!-and thy poor mind be dull? Thou "living dead man," let thy spirits leap Through thy soul's shut up mansion. Would'st thou know With which all nature's quick! and learn to be Break from thy body's grasp thy spirit's trance; 66 Debased by sin, and used to things of sense, How shall man's spirit rise and travel hence, Where lie the soul's pure regions, without bounds Where mind's at large-where passion ne'er confounds Clear thought-where thought is sight-the far brings nigh, Cast off thy slough! Send thy low spirit forth Creature all grandeur, son of truth and light, Bright on the holy mountain, round the throne, Look down! the depths are bright! and hear them cry, Light! light!"-Look up! 'tis rushing down from high! Regions on regions-far away they shine: 'Tis light ineffable, 'tis light divine! "Immortal light, and life for evermore!" Off through the deeps is heard from shore to shore To Pneuma.-JAMES WALLIS EASTBURN. TEMPESTS their furious course may sweep The howling wilderness may spread There Sorrow, moody Discontent, Where nought but dreariness is found; The wildest ills that darken life |