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CINCINNATI, JULY, 1842.
SABBATH DAY POINT.
When those same smiles were wont to gild our path-
I now bethink me of the bliss you gave
THE GREAT PROMISE.
How precious are God's promises! Under the severest temptations and most pressing wants, they pledge to us support and consolation. They are set forth in the most alluring language, and reiterated in the plainest terms, that we need not fear to rest in them, and seize the blessings which they proffer us. To encourage trust, and nearly render distrust impossible, they are addressed to us with almost an exuberance of phrases and variations. Amongst these promises, one is so comprehensive in its brevity, that it should be treasured up in our heart of hearts, and remembered daily and hourly. It is the sum of all promises-"My grace is sufficient for thee." No sense of weakness, want, or misery, can carry the soul beyond the purview || Which almost call our spirits from their clay, of that precious promise. It meets every possible state Draw us more closely to each other still, of depression and destitution, and leaves the doubting Till, mingled into one, our kindred souls soul without excuse. Take it, Christian, and set it as Aspire, and soar, and lose themselves with thine a seal upon thine arm. Never forget, wherever and In the abyss of life, and heaven, and God! however you may be assailed by want, or adversity, or GERTRUDE. persecution, that God has pledged you sufficient gracehas said, "As thy day is, so shall thy strength be."
The sorrows that you shared-the pains you soothed-
soars calmly and serenely forth into the bright heaven of fancy. The voice that called us in our youth, breathing from the quiet sky, from the blue misty hills, the clashing waters, like some half forgotten strain of music, is familiar now. We hear it in the early spring-time, when the sound of the streams is like a thousand silvery voices calling to each other from all the hills, or when the murmur of the summer woods is like deep answering unto deep, or when the hues of autumn's boughs rival the fiery clouds of her sunset, or when all the wintry winds clap their hands, and the snow flakes come down like the white blossoms of early summer showering from the branches. We have learned that the spell is in our own hearts, and we are blessed in the knowledge.
There comes a time when this rich strain of music in the heart, answering to all that is grand or beautiful in the moral or material world, seems the last remnant of childhood and youth. The eye grows dim, the cheek pale-worse, the heart grows cold. When the thought of death comes over our weariness, it brings a
OUR first recollections of this bright and breathing world are rather of feelings than of thought. They come back to us visions of bright sunshine and dancing shadow-long wanderings for many a sunny day hours of sport, whose very remembrance sends the blood thrilling through our veins, and day dreams, whose vividness and beauty will sometimes return long after life's stern realities have quenched the fire of the|| cold shuddering; for the heart is not so near heaven as eye, and wrought deep lines upon the forehead. We it once was. We here come to know we are not what were too happy and too busy then for sober thought; we have been, and to feel we are not what we should be; but sometimes, perchance in the midst of our most and when we look back upon the high and noble resolves boisterous mirth, there would come a sudden thrill, as with which we first commenced the struggle of life, we we looked upon the blue sky, or far hills, and we are humbled to the dust, for we ask ourselves how have would pause, with the jocund shout yet upon our lip, we kept them? And that humiliation, though bitter, and gaze as if our very soul were lost in that silent is most salutary. Then the purer and holier feelings and cloudless space. Over all the wild mirth of the of our youth, blended with its poetry, came back to us. heart there would come soft sadness, like the shadow Blessed be that spirit which is as an electric chain to of a fair cloud chasing the golden sunshine from the refresh the weary soul of later life with the fresh and earth. A joyous feeling, and yet it moved us almost unworldly thoughts of earlier years! Whence is the to tears! The heart was overflowing with new and spirit of poetry, whose office seems to be to cheer us indefinable emotions, and it seemed as if we beheld along the rugged way of life, and to elevate the mind the exceeding beauty of the earth for the first time. above the petty vexations that lie in our path? It is The eye has now a deeper and more chastened glad that loving sense of the grand and the beautiful which ness, and the smile of the lip is softened with sensibil- makes it a glorious boon but to live in the free air and ity. Youth is now calling home the wild affections, the smiling sunlight—it is that deep sensibility to the causeless emotions, the overflowing joy which whatever is good or noble or beautiful in moral nature, childhood has scattered on the world, and gathering which causes the sudden swelling up from the heart, them into itself, as if the heart foresaw the wearing and flushes the cheek, and brightens the eye-it is that struggle of life, and called home its resources for the which makes the cheek early pale with visions of lovecombat. The spirit hovers upon the verge of an un-liness that is not, and extending over all around us, by tried life-behind, bathed in purple light, lie the years that have glided away. The future stretches far off in the distance, filled with a thousand indistinct forms of surpassing beauty.
a blessed alchymy converts every thing into the precious metal of the heart. Where this spirit dwells, it is gentleness to man and strength to woman. We meet it in daily life; for poetry is not confined to the page of the schoolman alone. Here it prompts kindness, and affection, and generous self-sacrifice, with many a thought and act, which, though unknown and unsung on earth, shall be written with the sunbeam on that day when the deeds of conquerers shall make their actors pale with shame and affright.
SPIRIT OF POETRY.
SPIRIT OF POETRY.
BY T. G. BLAIR.
"O! there are spirits of the air,
And genii of the evening breeze,
"Twas night-and death the curtains drew 'mid agony secure,
C, speak no ill of poetry, for 'tis a holy thing."
But we have learned by experience that the world is not all it seems. A sense of its selfishness, its heartlessness, has breathed over us like an icy wind; but we have, as it were, beheld afar off, that the pinion of the soul is not yet soiled or torn in the contest. The little knowledge we have gained has served to awaken the sensibilities, to give a tinge of sadness to our anticipations, and to call reflection to the little world of our own hearts.
This is a temperament highly favorable to poetry. Now the spirit revels in the beauty of the material creation, and the imagination, unwearied and unworn,
It is sometimes doubted whether a high degree of the poetic spirit is conducive to the happiness of its possessor. Why, we would ask, should it not be so? If the poet feel intensely the evils of life—if his heart be deeply wounded by treachery, unkindness, and neglect-if his soul be daily disgusted with cold selfish
THE UNATTENDED HEARSE.
ness, does he not receive a rich compensation when his heart thrills at those purer and more generous acts, which, amid so much that is evil in this world, still gleam like starlight through the clouds? Is he not privileged to find, in this glorious universe, a delight which others can never realize? If he be true to the monitions of that spirit which God has imparted, has he not the soul-cheering assurance of benefiting his kind? Alas! that the poet should ever barter his high privileges for the smiles of the great, or the polluting pleasures of sense! Then only can man be miserable when he has devoted the blessings of God to the service of his foe.
The present, amid the din of political contests, and the jarring of mammon's devotees, is not an age of poetry. This is an age of stern reality.
"In these last days, what sounds salute the ear,
Apollo wrathful at the sound upbraids
Who to the world such noisy nonsense gave,
Ne'er drank, sweet Helicon, thy limpid wave!"
If a wreath is to encircle our history, which shall go blooming down
"To the last syllable of recorded time," the hands of an inquisitive philosophy are surely destined to weave it. Ancient fairy land has vanished from the earth-the days of visions are past-no nymphs or naiads people our woods and fountainsthe tales of enchanted islands far away over the blue deep have grown things of yore. We have realized wonders, the very prediction of which would have condemned any unfortunate beldam in the days of witchcraft. We have machines-strange looking monstersmoving, as it were, by magic, which, in days of old, would have subjected their inventors to the fiery ordeal. We have grown wise in our generation-we believe no dreams but golden ones. Money is all now-Alladdin's lamp-the wishing cap-the carpet of the prince in the fairy tale. The fairies have gone from the green grassy knowls where they were wont to dwell. The stealthy step of the midnight ghost visits no more the chambers of the guilty or the loved. The sound of the axe and the hammer has broken in upon the haunts of the poet, the silent dells, and airy hill tops. But poetry, driven from her ancient haunts, is avenging herself by ennobling and refining the objects for which she is sacrificed. Nor is her voice silent in the land; they who will listen may hear it rising at times like the voice of distant waters through the hush of evening; and they who have learned to judge of the future by the past tell us that the time is not far distant when one shall rise to fill the vacant throne in the realm of song.
Original. THE UNATTENDED HEARSE.
At the approach of the sickly season in New Orleans, it is no uncommon thing to see the hearse bearing away its dead with
out a single follower. The victim of death has perhaps been some respectable, poor young man, who has been lured to this commercial city by the delusive hope of making a fortune. Alas! he las found only a grave.
No funeral pomp, with lengthened sweep
E'er struck with pathos half so deep,
As the lone hearse upon its way.
To fancy's eye, it lifts the vail between
It tells of suffering in a stranger land,
Far, far away from household friends; There lov'd ones round him used to stand, And smooth his pillow with affection's hand; Here but a hireling nurse attends.
Love and skill were powerless now to save His wasting body from an early grave. There is a spell, of soul-subduing power,
Within the sacred name of homeBreathing its fragrance, like a flower, O'er our lorn spirit, till its latest hour, Where'er our footsteps roam.
It still, amid severest pain,
As round that home his memory lingers, And gushing from his heart's deep well, Come thoughts that burning there will dwell, Till wiped away by death's cold fingers. How little reck they of his mournful fate, Who his return with fond expectance wait.
The scene has closed-his spirit's fled!
His wandering feet no more shall roam. What anguish will the tidings spread, When the death letter first is read, In that bereaved home.
O, may the lost one they possessed, Be found again amidst the blest!
Tho' stranger friends, that to him clung
Love's living things of earth
Yet o'er his fresh and lonely bed Their eye no pitying tear will shed.
And though no prayer ascend to God,
Ere they shall lay him in the dust, No gentle hand e'er place the sod, But by rude feet the earth be trod, Yet still in heaven, we trust,
For him the "righteous" household prayer May have secured his entrance there.