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SLUMBER’s heavy chain hath bound thee—
Feebler wings are gathering round thee—
Can no power, no spell, recall thee
O, could o, so appal thee,
Thine was once the highest pinion
Where the pillared props of heaven
Where no darkling clouds are driven,
Far above the rolling thunder,
* Rent its sulphury folds asunder,
We beheld thy form.
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,
Not with pinion faint and drooping
Up again undaunted soaring,
When the warring winds were roaring Fearfully and loud.
Where is now that restless longing
But thou slumberest; faint and quivering
Hark! his rustling plumage gathers
Now he curves his neck, and proudly
Glorious bird, thy dream has left thee—
The Spirit of Poetry.—Long FELI.ow.
THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods, That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows— Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade, The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air, The leaves above their sunny palms outspread. With what a tender and impassioned voice It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought, When the fast-ushering star of morning comes O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf; Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled eve, In mourning weeds, from out the western gate, Departs with silent pace . That spirit moves In the green valley, where the silver brook, From its full laver, pours the white cascade, And, babbling low amid the tangled woods, Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter. And frequent, on the everlasting hills, Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself In all the dark embroidery of the storm, And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid The silent majesty of these deep woods, Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, As to the sunshine and the pure bright air Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. For them there was an eloquent voice in all The sylvan pomp of woods—the golden sun— The flowers—the leaves—the river on its way— Blue skies—and silver clouds—and gentle winds— The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun o Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes— Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in— Mountain—and shattered cliff—and sunny vale— The distant lake—fountains—and mighty trees— In many a lazy syllable repeating 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 beaut That dwell in nature—of the heavenly forms
We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues
-oIncomprehensibility 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, Wast, distant, glorious with its world of suns,— Life-giving earth, and ever-moving mainAnd speaking winds,-and ask if these are Thee! The stars that twinkle on, the eternal hills, The restless tide's outgoing and return, The omnipresent and deep-breathing air—
*To meet with such a piece of poetry as this, which we find in the fifth
volume of the Unitarian Roi... 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 ines) has said,
“For never guiltless may I speak of Him,
Though hailed as gods of old, and only less—