And from my state of dark and grave-like gloom
Call'd me to nobler being. I arose

As a freed spirit from its riven tomb

Would rise to meet the Archangel. Stirring throes
Of Pride, Ambition, Honour, and fair Fame,

Thrilled mightily my deepest, inmost, soul—
Urged me to strive for glory and a name.
And set up Virtue's prizes as my goal;

Oh Love! Though thou'rt the Spirit of my woe,
Though all my sorrow hath been wrought by thee-
Thou'st taught me all the joy that I can know,
Hast made me all I am, or e'er can be.

CHAPTER X.

THE ODD MAN COMES TO AN ODD DETERMINATION.

I have resolved to quit my solitude and return to the world: a Great Voice calls me, and I obey. I see sorrows that need soothing, wants that cry for relief, captives that groan for freedom, helpless sufferers that shriek for succour. Duty says AROUSE THEE FROM I go! but oh! not

THY SLEEP-THERE IS WORK FOR THEE TO DO.
alone!

Seraph spirit! hover near me,
Be my guardian angel still;
Ever watch me, ever hear me,

Guide me, guard me, keep from ill!
When the cares of Earth oppress me,
And the world looks cold on me ;-
Oh! be near my soul, and bless me

With sweet thoughts of Heaven and Thee!

When the wretched stand before me,

And I see their soul-tears flow,

Seraph spirit! hover o'er me,

Teach me how to heal their woe!

When in my To-day's vast sorrow
I recall our parting's pain,
Tell me of that great To-morrow,
When our souls shall meet again.

And at last when Death shall take me
To my bed beneath the sod,—

Thou the Angel be to awake me,
And to lead me up to God!

CHAPTER XI.

THE ODD MAN TAKES LEAVE OF HIS ONLY FRIEND.

I.

And now my Pen! thou that so long hast been
My friend, my pleasure, my companion dear;
Sole comfort of the cold and chilling scene

To which it seems that I am destined here,-
Now we must part. Oh! I have learnt to lean
So long on thee for solace, that I fear
To lay thee down: I cannot bear to be
Without the trusty friend I find in thee.

II.

He who hath not a friend nor fellow mind

To whom he may reveal his thoughts that burnWho's doomed to be neglected by mankind,

To feel the proud man's scorn, the rich man's spurnOh! where shall he relief or comfort find,

Or where for sympathy and solace turn? Something must hear his bursting words of care, Or how shall he escape the fiend Despair.

III.

Thoughts that are not revealed oppress the brain
That gives them birth; and o'er their parent mind
Hang dark and fearful shadows. "Tis in vain
We strive to flee and leave those clouds behind-
They follow us for ever. Grief and pain,

And even joy, a means of speech must find,
Or woe to him who feels them!-they consume
And feed upon us like the worms in the tomb.

IV.

When the full heart is bursting o'er with woe,
And has no ear to tell its tale unto;

When from the eyes sad tears of sorrow flow,

And there's no answering vision in the view,
To beam back comfort; when Death strikes a blow,
Or sorrow, pain, or wretchedness pursue,

Oh then, 'tis then this feather is a friend
On whom our souls may lean and may depend.

V.

Or when some lov'd one's parted from our sight
By jealous Fate, and to far distance borne,-
And the soul's strong unspeakable delight

From its dear home-the heart-is rudely torn ;
When our life's sky is veil'd by Sorrow's night,
And, like a childless mother, Hope doth mourn,
Then to the spirit, thus of all bereft,

This feather is the only solace left.

VI.

And thou, my Pen, thou hast been this to me,
The friend to whom I've told my every thought;
Whose aid in pleasure and in privacy,

In sorrow and in happiness, I've sought;
Who'st set my thoughts, poor lonely captives, free,
Reliev'd my breast with bursting longings fraught;
Yes! thou hast been my voice, my speech, my friend;
My hope the only hope that's known no end.

VII.

And now I must forsake thee, Friend! and seek
The busy ways and stirring scenes of life—

Must hear the piteous sons of sorrow speak,

And look on the sad scenes of earth's-man's-strife; Must see the toil-worn form-the haggard cheek— The fearful woes with which the world is rife ;

Listen to man's hypocrisy and guile,

And must not, dare not, show my scorn the while.

VIII.

For this thy friendship I must now resign,
Forsake the quiet happiness I've prov'd,
Yield up a joy that's been to me divine,

And turn me from the solitude I've lov'd.
But 'tis not wise nor manly thus to whine-
No! I will bear my destiny unmoved:
But yet God grant ere long that I may be
Free to come back to solitude and thee!

STRAY THOUGHTS ON POETS AND POETRY.-No. 2.

"Poetry has something divine in it, because it raises the mind and hurries it into sublimity, by conforming the shews of things to the desires of the soul, instead of subjecting the soul to external things, as reason and history do."-Lord Bacon.

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POETRY is not a modern invention, it is co-existent with the Universe itself. There was poetry in "the beginning," when "the earth was without form, and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep." The creation of this beauteous World, with its hills and valleys, its oceans and rivers, and all things fair and lovely that it contains, was the gradual development of a poem, which no created intelligence should ever be able to alter, imitate, or destroy; a poem," says Critchley Prince, "of transcendent grandeur and sublimity, which should retain its pristine loveliness to the very end of time." Prince thus eloquently follows out the idea in his own graceful and appropriate language. "In the beginning the spirit of God moved in the realm of Chaos; and this wondrous world, fair in its aspect, and vast in its proportions, rose from the dark and mysterious abyss. He said 'Let there be light,' and the young sun sprang forth on his ethereal way, never to rest again. The clouds, brightening in his smile, followed after him, to decorate the heavens and fructify the earth. The chaste and quiet Moon made her first journey up the steep of night, while her attendant stars, mingling in the maze of intricate but perfect harmony, rang with the music of according spheres. He spake again, and the waters were gathered together into seas, leaving the dry land filled with the germs of beauty and abundance. Every valley was mantled with delicious verdure, and every mountain with the waving majesty of woods. The silent earth lay beneath the smile of heaven, like an unbounded Paradise, where herb and leaf, bud and blossom, flower and fruit, grew spontaneously together; making a spot so formed for peace and love, that angels afterwards came down to hallow it with their divine pre

sence.

Again the Invisible spake, and countless myriads of creatures started into active life. The mighty leviathan gambolled in the great deep; the lordly lion, and colossal elephant, startled the forest solitudes with cries. Birds, radiant in plumage and prodigal of song, waved in the light of heaven innumerable wings, and filled the vocal air with sounds of freedom, melody, and joy. Again the fiat of the Eternal went forth, and Man--proud, complicated Man-erect and in the image of his Maker, rose up from his native dust, the last and crown

ing ornament of Creation. Behold, then, the object of Divine Wisdom accomplished, the glory of Divine Power made known, and the everlasting Poem of Nature completed.

The great men in all ages have delighted in Poetry, and have reverenced the professors of this "so divine an art." Plato, it is true, paid them little honour, when in planning his imaginary Republic, he excluded Poets, as though they were not useful members of a Commonwealth, and as if their place were better filled by soldiers or artisans. But there was this inconsistency in the great philosopher, that while he would forbid poetry to be read in public, he would never be without Homer's works in his own closet; so that he would delight his own soul, and stimulate his own virtues, by the golden writings which he grudged to make a public possession.

Our wonder at his animosity to the Poets may, however, diminish when we consider that Plato lived at Athens at a time when the Drama-the then only field of the Poet's labours-was disgraced by the utmost licentiousness and impurity. He was not blind to the fact, that these popular spectacles were mightily influential in demoralizing the people, and were sapping the very foundation of all good government. His stern philosophy knew no mercy, and in his virtuous indignation he would doom the whole race of Poets to everlasting destruction for the sins and follies of the Greek Dramatists! We ask, was this wise? was it like Plato? Should he not rather have decried the abuses of the age, and sought their removal, rather than have banished those whose gifts, if rightly exercised, must add dignity and power to a community?

But we need not stay to reconcile Plato's principles, with his practice, for it is enough for us to be assured for ourselves of the great utility of Poetry, when applied to the support of virtue. It is surely in the highest degree advantageous to any state, that her best and noblest citizens should receive that applause which their good deeds merit. Wherever virtue is to be found, let there be those, who shall celebrate and hand down its memory to after times, that merit may not pine under neglect, nor posterity forget the glorious examples of their forefathers.

And who can praise so well, and so lastingly as the bard? This task is one most congenial to his nature, and awakens his highest sympathies. The recollections of the high deservings of virtuous men, are a pure essence of Poetry, they are indeed

"Thoughts that voluntary move
Harmonious numbers."

How often has he who has been struggling to quit himself virtuously, amidst reproach and danger, amidst sorrows and discouragements, been cheered with the assurance that his bright example shall for ever live upon the tongues of men, and that hereafter it shall be said of him that" though dead he yet speaketh."

And of all men the Poets are they who can give the highest, the most enduring commendation to good deeds, they can most efficiently and most permanently, rescue from forgetfulness high and glorious

actions.

"Their voice shall be heard in other ages, when the kings of Temora have failed."

The ancient Athenians paid a noble respect to the memory of the virtuous dead. It was their custom to pronounce over the tombs of those who had fought and died for their country, orations, in which they praised their good deeds, and upheld their example to the imitation of their fellow-citizens. But this meed of merited praise was but once paid, and when the orator's tongue had become silent in the grave, the fame of the patriot warrior might moulder away along with it. But the song of the Poet is not hushed when he is mute, but preserves an eloquent memorial which shall be oft repeated in every age, to every generation. The works of men's hands must disappear, but the creations of their minds will remain while the world endures. The Pyramids may be levelled with the dust, governments overturned, empires perish, but the song of the true Poet cannot decay. Our own English Plato has said that "the images of men's wits remain unmaimed in book for ever, exempt from the injuries of

time."

This idea of Bacon's has been beautifully developed by the eloquent Carlyle, and it is well worthy our reflection, for it is an idea teeming with truth. He adds, "In Books lies the soul of the whole Past Time; the articulate audible voice of the Past, when the body and material substance of it has altogether vanished like a dream. Mighty fleets and armies, harbours and arsenals, vast cities, highdomed, many-engined,—they are precious, great: but what do they become? Agamemnon, the many Agamemnons, Pericleses, and their Greece; all is gone now to some ruined fragments, dumb, mournful wrecks and blocks; but the Books of Greece! There Greece to every thinker, still very literally lives; can be called up again into life. No magic Rune is stranger than a Book. All that mankind has done, thought, gained or been; it is lying, as in magic preservation in the pages of Books. They are the chosen possession of men." But all writers, and their works, have not an equal influence upon the world. All books do not live. Whose, then, are most likely to survive the revolutions of time, and affect most deeply the sympathies of the human heart? At once we answer, the Poets'. In all ages it has been thus, and so will it for ever continue. In the world of letters the poets rule, and none can depose them.

Surely no single writer has exercised so much influence as Homer has done, upon the imaginative powers, the taste and the fancy of mankind, nor held so great a sway over the literature of the world. Indeed so mighty has been this influence, so amazing the power of Homer's genius, that it has been strongly maintained that Homer was not one man, but many; that the Iliad and Odyssey arose from the combined energies of the master spirits of several generations. But whether he be one or many, we may safely say, that it was Homer who aroused the whole Greek nation to that intellectual eminence, that love of elegance and refinement, in which they have never yet been, and perhaps never will be, surpassed. Unless there had been Homer we cannot conceive that Herodotus or Thucydides would have attained so high an excellence in history, or Plato have charmed the world with a philosophy so refined and so imaginative. Homer has certainly stamped upon the Grecian literature the impression of his own intellectual vigour and beauty. We may also say that his