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As if seeking
Entrance-welcome, and bespeaking
Our affection for the rain.

Quick, and quicker
Come the droppings, thick, and thicker
Pour the hasty torrents down:
Rushing—rushing—
From the leaden spouts a-gushing,
Cleansing all the streets in town.

Darkness utter
Gathers round;—we close the shutter;
Snugly shelter'd let us keep.
Still unceasing
Falls the rain; but oh! 'tis pleasing
'Neath such lullaby to sleep.

How I love it ! -
Let the miser money covet—
Let the soldier seek the fight;
Give me only,
When I lie awake and lonely,
Music made by rain at night.

PATIENT CONTINUANCE IN WELL-DOING.

Bear the burden of the present—
Let the morrow bear its own :

If the morning sky be pleasant,
Why the coming night bemoan 2

If the darken'd heavens lower,
Wrap thy cloak around thy form;

Though the tempest rise in power,
God is mightier than the storm.

Steadfast faith and hope unshaken
Animate the trusting breast:

Step by step the journey's taken
Nearer to the land of rest.

All unseen, the Master walketh
By the toiling servant's side;

Comfortable words he talketh,
While his hands uphold and guide.

Grief, nor pain, nor any sorrow
Rends thy breast to him unknown;

He to-day and He to-morrow
Grace sufficient gives his own.

Holy strivings nerve and strengthen,_
Long endurance wins the crown;

When the evening shadows lengthen,
Thou shalt lay the burden down.

HENRY T. TUCKERMAN.

HENRY Theodore TuckerMAN, “one of the most genial and elegant essayists, and a very graceful and pleasing poet,” was born in Boston on the 20th of April, 1813. After preparing for college, it was deemed necessary for his health that he should relinquish his studies and seek a milder climate. Accordingly, in 1833, he sailed from New York for Havre, and, after a short stay at Paris, went on to Italy, where he remained till the next summer, when he returned home, and gave to the public some of the results of his observations in The Italian SketchBook. Again he was obliged to resort to travel for the benefit of his health, and sailed for Gibraltar in the fall of 1837, and passed the winter chiefly in Italy. He returned home the next summer; and in 1845 removed from Boston to New York, where he now resides, except during the summer months, which he passes at Newport, Rhode Island. In 1850, the honorary degree of Master of Arts was conferred upon him by Harvard College. Mr. Tuckerman's life is the life of a scholar: literature is his profession, and nobly has he quitted himself in it. Indeed, considering that his health has never been very robust, it is astonishing how much he has done, and how well he has done it. The following are, we believe, his chief works:—Artist Life; or Sketches of American Painters;" The Italian Sketch-Book ; The Optimist,--a collection of Essays; Rambles and Reveries ; Sicily, a Pilgrimage; Thoughts on the Poets; Characteristics of Literature; Memorial of Greenough, the Sculptor; Leaves from the Diary of a Dreamer, published anonymously by Pickering, London; Biographical Essays ; and a volume of Poems.” Besides these works, he has been a contributor to the “North American Review,” “American Quarterly,” Graham's, Sartain's, Godey's, and Putnam's Magazines; “Atlantic Monthly,” “Christian -Examiner,” “Methodist Quarterly,” “Southern Literary Messenger,” and “New Englander.” He has also written a very excellent Sketch of American Literature, as an Appendix to “Shaw's English Literature.”

LEISURE TO BE PROPERLY APPRECIATED.

A New England merchant, upon leaving a picture-gallery abroad, was observed by his companion to be very thoughtful. Presently he exclaimed, “I have been thinking of nothing but making money all my life. How much there is to learn and to

! No more interesting and instructive books can be found in our literature than Tuckerman's Thoughts on the Poets, The Optimist, Characteristics of Literature, and Essays Biographical and Critical. The two latter would be excellent books for the higher classes in schools; and the four should be in every district-school library in the land. An English scholar, who is familiar with our literature, thus writes:– “Henry T. Tuckerman may be described as one of the most imaginative and sympathetic of American crities, and a refined and elegant writer. His essays and reviews show a liberal cultivation of mind and heart.”

2 Of these a beautiful edition has been published by Ticknor & Fields.

enjoy in this world ! Henceforth no thought of business shall enter my mind, until I recross the Atlantic. I will study paint. ing, and sculpture, and music : I will commune with nature; I will ponder the works of departed genius; I will cultivate the society of the intellectual and the gifted;”—at this point of his harangue, he suddenly left his friend's side, and darted into a shop they were passing-apologizing, upon resuming the walk, by saying he had merely stopped to inquire the price of tallow ! Leisure with us is still an anomaly. Now, far be it from us to gainsay the advantages of industry, to deny that labor is man's appropriate sphere, or to lament, for a moment, the spectacle of universal activity, and, consequently, of prosperity, around us. Let us only contend that all labor is not obvious and tangible; that no man who thinks deserves to be called an idler; that the absence of any obvious employment or specific profession does not necessarily make any one amenable to the charge of inactivity. How much of our boasted industry is profitless; to how many, social ambition or extravagant tastes, instead of necessity, form the true motives of business; how much of the so-called occupation about us is void of any higher result than that of keeping its votaries out of mischief; how seldom do those who have acquired a competency retire upon it to scenes of domestic improvement; and with what reluctance do the fortunate yield the arena to the young and penniless, even when age and infirmity warn them to retreat It is time we learned, not to underrate business, but to appreciate leisure.

ENTHUSIASM –SYMPATHY.

Let us recognise the beauty and power of true enthusiasm, and, whatever we may do to enlighten ourselves and others, guard against checking or chilling a single earnest sentiment. For what is the human mind, however enriched with acquisitions or strengthened by exercise, unaccompanied by an ardent and sensitive heart? Its light may illumine, but it cannot inspire. It may shed a cold and moonlight radiance upon the path of life, but it warms no flower into bloom ; it sets free no ice-bound fountains. There are influences which environ humanity too subtle for the dissecting-knife of reason. In our better moments we are clearly conscious of their presence, and if there is any barrier to their blessed agency, it is a formalized intellect. Enthusiasm, too, is the very life of gifted spirits. Ponder the lives of the glorious in art or literature through all ages. What are they but records of toils and sacrifices supported by the earnest hearts of their votaries? Dante composed his immortal poem amid exile and suffering, prompted by the noble ambition of windicating himself to posterity; and the sweetest angel of his paradise is the object of his early love. The best countenances the old painters have bequeathed to us are those of cherished objects intimately associated with their fame. The face of Raphael's mother blends with the angelic beauty of all his Madonnas. Titian's daughter and the wife of Correggio again and again meet in their works. Well does Foscolo call the fine arts the Children of Love. Reason is not the only interpreter of life. The fountain of action is in the feelings. Religion itself is but a state of the affections. I once met a beautiful peasant-woman in the valley of the Arno, and asked the number of her children. “I have three here and two in paradise,” she calmly replied, with a tone and manner of touching and grave simplicity. Her faith was of the heart. Constant supplies of knowledge to the intellect and the exclusive culture of reason may, indeed, make a pedant and logician; but the probability is these benefits, if such they are, will be gained at the expense of the soul. Sentiment, in its broadest acceptation, is as essential to the true enjoyment and grace of life as mind. Technical information, and that quickness of apprehension which New Englanders call smartness, are not so valuable to a human being as sensibility to the beautiful, and a spontaneous appreciation of the divine influences which fill the realms of vision and of sound, and the world of action and feeling. The tastes, affections, and sentiments are more absolutely the man than his talent or acquirements. And yet it is by and through the latter that we are apt to estimate character, of which they are at best but fragmentary evidences. It is remarkable that in the New Testament allusions to the intellect are so rare, while the “heart” and the “spirit we are of" are ever appealed to. Sympathy is the “golden key” which unlocks the treasures of wisdom; and this depends upon vividness and warmth of feeling.

THE POET CAMPIBELL.

If we were to adopt a vernacular poet from the brilliant constellation of the last and present century, as representing legitimately natural and popular feeling with true lyric energy, such as finds inevitable response and needs no advocacy or criticism to uphold or elucidate it, we should name Campbell. IIe wrote from the intensity of his own sympathies with freedom, truth, and love: his expression, therefore, is truly poetic in its spirit; while in rhetorical finish and aptness he had the very best culture, that of Greek literature. Thus simply furnished with inspiration and with a style both derived from the most genuine sources, -the one from nature and the other from the highest art, he gave

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melodious and vigorous utterance, not to a peculiar vein of imagina. tion, like Shelley, nor a mystical attachment to nature, like Wordsworth, nor an egotistic personality, like Byron; but to a love of freedom and truth which political events had caused to glow with unwonted fervor in the bosoms of his noblest contemporaries, and to the native sentiment of domestic and social life, rendered more - dear and sacred by their recent unhallowed desecration. It was not by ingenuity, egotism, or artifice that he thus chanted, but honestly, earnestly, from the impulse of youthful ardor and tenderness moulded by scholarship. It is now the fashion to relish verse more intricate, sentiment less defined, ideas of a metaphysical cast, and a rhythm less modulated by simple and grand cadences; yet to a manly intellect, to a heart yet alive with fresh, brave, unperverted instincts, the intelligible, glowing, and noble tone of Campbell's verse is yet fraught with cheerful augury. It has outlived, in current literature and in individual remembrance, the diffuse metrical tales of Scott and Southey ; finds a more prolonged response, from its general adaptation, than the ever-recurring key-note of Byron; and lingers on the lips and in the hearts of those who only muse over the elaborate pages of those minstrels whose golden ore is either beaten out to intangible thinness, or largely mixed with the alloy of less precious metal. Indeed, nothing evinces a greater want of just appreciation in regard to the art or gift of poetry, than the frequent complaints of such a poet as Campbell because of the limited quantity of his verse. It would be as rational to expect the height of animal spirits, the exquisite sensation of conva

lescence, the rapture of an exalted mood, the perfect content of .

gratified love, the tension of profound thought, or any other state the very law of which is rarity, to become permanent. Campbell's best verse was born of emotion, not from idle reverie or verbal experiment; that emotion was heroic or tender, sympathetic or devotional,—the exception to the everyday, the commonplace, and the mechanical; accordingly, in its very nature, it was “like angels' visits,” and no more to be summoned at will than the glow of affection or the spirit of prayer.

MARY.

What though the name is old and of repeated,
What though a thousand beings bear it now :
And true hearts oft the gentle word have greeted,—
What though 'tis hallow'd by a poet's vow :
We ever love the rose, and yet its blooming
Is a familiar rapture to the eye;
And yon bright star we hail, although its looming
Age after age has lit the northern sky.

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