were not. Neither the society of the past, or its governments, could teach men their true nature, or inspire them with self-reliance or cheer them with hope. Were they not the unreasoning tools of power,-were they not curs to be cuffed at will,-chips to be hurled about at caprice? Well might they have said to their heartless oppressors,-we have obeyed like cowering slaves, we have toiled until blood has stood upon our limbs as sweat, we have drained the dregs of life's bitterest cup, for your gratification, and what have you given us in return? Only curses and blows. And all this, because haughty man refused to confess his fellow man; because the lust of dominion expelled the sense of right; because the divine impress on each human soul was not read, or if read, despised. Matters have since measurably advanced. The grinding foot of oppression has been raised, but not altogether removed. Better notions have grown up in the hearts of men, but, alas! how much is there to stifle and impede full growth. A hateful despotism still too often actuates human will-the spirit of exclusion, of scorn, of tyranny, of selfishness, still lingers about the high places, and makes itself felt in the depths of society. Nothing short of the broadest reception of the principles of democracy can regenerate man. There must be something in his circumstances to remind him of his inherent worth; something that, amid withering and depressing care, will ever bring back the fresh consciousness of his manhood. How can he whose life is perpetual toil, whose existence is lost in that of the many whose highest conception of excellence is fidelity to another's pleasure, whose only exercise of conscience and freewill is in the stern struggle for subsistence--how can he attain a true insight of his immortal value. Some virtue, it is true, is found in the least favored conditions. There is room enough in the lowest walks for the sweet play of affection. There are every where friends to be esteemed, kindred to cherish, or a wife and children to love. There are endurance and energy imparted every where by the discipline of life, but how little is all this compared with the perfect stature of a man. No, let it be understood that the same nature is common to all men, that they have equal and sacred claims, that they have high and holy faculties; that society respects, and the whole force of government is pledged to protect their rights; and then will they acquire some adequate notion of who and what they are, of their divine origin, and their imperishable being. A feeling of exaltation and nobleness would pass into their souls, and the humblest person would expand with a sense of innate dignity-a sense that would raise him above the dusty, beaten paths of life, give a respite to depressing care, strengthen self-respect, infuse warm and liberal emotions, quicken the best sympathies, and lend animation and support to the noblest powers. He would feel at once that he was man, known and honored as such, of higher importance, and more inestimable worth than the whole outward world. In this ennobling influence Christianity and Democracy are one. What, indeed, is Democracy but Christianity in its earthly aspect-Christianity made effective among the political relations of men. Christianity, in which it accords with every design of Providence, begins with individual man, addressing its lofty persuasions to him, and makes his full development its chief solicitude and care. The obstacles reared by artificial life it throws aside; the rubbish heaped by centuries of abuse upon the human spirit it removes, the better to unfold man's inward beauty, and bring forth man's inward might. A single soul is worth more in its sight than suns or stars. It has a value more enduring than States. The proudest thrones may crumble, the broadest empires contract and become nothing, but the spirit of the meanest man can never perish; for it is the germ of an immortal, ever-expanding, ever-quickening existence. HYMN TO OUR GOOD GENIUS. "Each soul is watched by two genii; one, its friend and faithful guardian, is unceasingly engaged to guide it unharmed through the mazes of life."— Wieland. O, protect us, gentle spirit, With our fearful, fiendish guide. We would cling to thee for shelter He would lure our trusting hearts. We would ask no vain redemption We would tread this harsh ordeal, With a brave, unshrinking will; "The Shuhrab or Water of the Desert is said to be caused by the rarefaction of the atmosphere from extreme heat." Fain would we shine forth more holy, Lead our souls to worship Nature, Loving all things true and fair, Weak and erring, we implore thee, Watching o'er her recreant son; Ever ready for a summons To our blessed Father-land! A. E SONNET. TO A CHILD. How oft, fair form, when we have bent above And sweet as a flower's sweet heart uttereth- When angels whispered thee, it seemed like death, Those whispering angels, back to heaven again Of carth one shade could cast upon its sunny wing. August 13th, 1839. "The Lake of Herkend, which, when tost by tempestuous winds, sparkles like fire." THE TASTE FOR POETRY. Few persons are so rash as to say they do not relish Milton's Paradise Lost, and still fewer read it. We appeal to the critics themselves, and ask them, How often, during the last ten years, have you held in your hands Milton or Spencer, or even Shakspeare? And how often have you recurred to these great names, and spoken of them as if they were your daily study? It is as bad with the Bible, which is forever a subject of conversation. Its sublimity and pathos; its simplicity and clearness; its wisdom and adaptedness to all our moral wants and feelings, are set forth, upon occasions, with earnestness; and yet few books in the libraries of scholars are so seldom read and so rarely studied. It is considered proper to say such things, and generation after generation will repeat the axiom upon trust, and the scanty knowledge gained of the Sacred page by hearing it read on Sundays. There are a set of conventional ideas, or so considered axioms, among literary people, to depart from which no one more dares than he does, at this day, to wear a cocked hat, and cue, and white-topped boots. Milton is in every body's mouth who hopes for reputation, scholarship, and taste, while his volumes lie dust-laden on the shelf. It is no small matter to get up a taste for poetry. It is no small matter to learn to read any book; to be able to feel in the mind ideas transferred from the printed page, as vividly as when uttered by the human voice, enforced by the gesture, and illuminated by the countenance. "Mistrust," says the author of Imaginary Conversations, "mistrust easy writing, easy versemaking, a knack at poetry." Truc poetry is hewn out from the deep mines of the soul. As it is not easily uttered, it is not easily read. We must come prepared to the task, as the priesthood who robe themselves and burn incense around the altar when about to touch the symbols of their religion. Milton and Shakspeare can no more be read and appreciated by a mind engaged in frivolous pursuits-can no more be fathomed by him who has never thought long and hard, and suffered, and wept, and agonized-than can the child's tiny boat live in the tempest on the broad ocean, or the back-thread, with which the boy fishes for minnows, can sound the depths of the sea. If, according to Bacon, "Poetry is the accommodation of the shows of things to the desires of the mind," how high and deep, how far and wide must be his reach who would understand and sympathize with the susceptive heart of the poet, with his "nameless unrest," "the blind struggle of a soul in bondage," "his sad, longing discontent;" often with his life-weariness, his moody melancholy, and mad, stormful indignation, borne on the tones of a wild and quite artless melody? What must be his preparation who would follow the poet in the aspirations of an immortal mind, spiritualized, in solitude perhaps, by communing with nature and abstraction from all gross and worldly pursuits? At college anniversaries and Phi Beta Kappa festivals, in all professedly literary performances, there are certain names which the speaker feels bound to invoke and lug into his exercise; no matter whether he speak from actual knowledge or not; no matter whether he has ever read the authors he invokes or takes their sacredness by hearsay, he is safe in saying all manner of flattering things about them, and gains a reflected credit for taste and general acquaintance with literature. The fact is, the standards, as they are called, are studied little enough. In the flood of books, good and bad, which deluge the times, the old land-marks of literature are overwhelmed. It is as much as one can do to keep up with the march of modern writing, without making excursions backwards and sideways, to examine the castles and fortifications which thought once erected in the wars against ignorance, and superstition, and folly. Splendid editions of Addison and Goldsmith, of the English essayists and poets, grace the shelves of public libraries and private studies, while Talfourd and Bulwer, Lamb, Martineau, and Wordsworth are found never at hand upon the table. This is not written in a spirit of fault-finding, but as a bare statement of fact; and away, say we, with bubblings, affectations, and lying! Let men seem what they are; say what they know and feel; praise what they really admire, and choose what they love. To expect scholars to gather their food from the past alone is idle. They must find their main nourishment in the productions of those who embody in their works the spirit of the age, its deep interests and noble schemes for human advancement. Every writer is best understood in his own time. His forms of expression, his figures, allusions, his satire and praise, must all grow out of these passing events, important at the moment, but hardly worthy of a record in public memory. We except from this remark, of course, those who have portrayed man and not men; who have illustrated principles and not manners; who have not been so anxious for present fame and popularity as for truth and others' good. The perfect scholar will become acquainted with the ancients and the predecessors of his age in letters, as the politician will record the progress of governments, but his interest and heart will be given to the present. Antiquity and distance will not blind him to faults; and he will remember that, if age and experience are worthy of attention, this is the old age of the world; that now we are profiting by the experience of the past. However, to present one subject fully, there is some reason why we should look back for models upon which to form a taste for poetry. All the arts attained their highest perfection in a comparatively rude age, because there seemed to be a necessity for them. The people of those times, when books were unknown, were instructed by statues, pictures, |