Genius Waking.—PERCIVAL. SLUMBER's heavy chain hath bound thee- Feebler wings are gathering round thee- O, could glory so appal thee, With his burning beams! Thine was once the highest pinion With a proud and sure dominion, Thou didst upward bear. Like the herald, winged with lightning, Ever mounting, ever brightening, Thou wert there alone. Where the pillared props of heaven O, what rare and heavenly brightness As a cascade's foamy whiteness Wheeling through the shadowy ocean, With serene and placid motion, Thou wert dazzling bright. From that cloudless region stooping, Up again undaunted soaring, Thou didst pierce the cloud, When the warring winds were roaring Where is now that restless longing Come they not, like visions, thronging Why should not their glow enchant thee Surely danger cannot daunt thee From a heaven like this. But thou slumberest; faint and quivering Hangs thy ruffled wing; Like a dove in winter shivering, Or a feebler thing. Where is now thy might and motion, Where is now thy heart's devotion? Where thy spirit's light? Hark! his rustling plumage gathers Closer to his side, Close, as when the storm-bird weathers Ocean's hurrying tide. Now his nodding beak is steady Wide his burning eye Now his opening wings are ready, And his aim-how high! Now he curves his neck, and proudly Now, like sunset over fountains, Glorious bird, thy dream has left thee- With a bold, a fearless pinion, On thy starry road, None, to fame's supreme dominion, The Spirit of Poetry.-LONGFELLOW. THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods, That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows- Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughte Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself And here, amid The silent majesty of these deep woods, -Hence gifted bards Their old poetic legends to the wind. And this is the sweet spirit that doth fill The world; and, in these wayward days of youth, My busy fancy oft imbodies it, As a bright image of the light and beauty That dwell in nature-of the heavenly forms We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues That lie i' the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds The heaven of April, with its changing light, And when it wears the blue of May, was hung, And on her lip the rich red rose. Her hair Was as the summer tresses of the trees, When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek With its ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath It was so like the gentle air of spring, As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes To have it round us-and her silver voice Was the rich music of a summer bird, Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence. Incomprehensibility of God.*-MISS ELIZABETH TOWNSEND. "I go forward, but he is not there; and backward, but I cannot perceive him." WHERE art thou?-THOU! Source and Support of all That is or seen or felt; Thyself unseen, Unfelt, unknown,-alas! unknowable! I look abroad among thy works-the sky, Vast, distant, glorious with its world of suns,— Life-giving earth, and ever-moving main,— *To meet with such a piece of poetry as this, which we find in the fifth volume of the Unitarian Miscellany, would repay us for the toil of looking through whole libraries. It is equal in grandeur to the celebrated produc tion of Bryant-" Thanatopsis ; nor will it suffer by a comparison with the most sublime pieces either of Wordsworth or of Coleridge. The latter (with a feeling akin to the elevated inspiration which animates these noble lines) has said, "For never guiltless may I speak of Him, I praise Him, and with Faith, that inly feels; ED. Though hailed as gods of old, and only less- (If such, perchance, were mine) did they behold Thee? And next interrogate futurity So fondly tenanted with better things Than e'er experience owned-but both are mute; And past and future, vocal on all else, So full of memories and phantasies, Are deaf and speechless here! Fatigued, I turn From all vain parley with the elements; And close mine eyes, and bid the thought turn inward. From each material thing its anxious guest, If, in the stillness of the waiting soul, He may vouchsafe himself-Spirit to spirit! O Thou, at once most dreaded and desired, Pavilioned still in darkness, wilt thou hide thee? Which soon or late must come. For light like this Peace, my proud aim, Await his will, who hath appointed this, With every other trial. Be that will Done now, as ever. For thy curious search, On Him-the Unrevealed-learn hence, instead, E'en to the perfecting thyself—thy kind— |