all more or less indicative of their mental character. Montaigne indeed laments the ugliness of Socrates, and repeats the well known anecdote of the physiognomical judgment passed on him by Zopyrus, that he was "stupid, brutal, sensual and addicted to drunkenness." With respect to the original moral qualities of the philosopher, the decision was not erroneous, for Socrates himself admitted that his virtues were a hard-gained triumph over his natural disposition. But the philosopher's forehead was a fitting tabernacle for a lofty mind. No craniologist would have doubt ed his intellectual power. The skill of Zopyrus was confined to the perusal of the lower features. How delightful is the study of the human head! It is a mystery and a glory! It at once perplexes the reason and kindles the imagination! What a wondrous treasury of knowledge— what a vast world of thought is contained within its ivory walls! In that small citadel of the soul what a host of mighty and im. mortal images are ranged uncrowded! What floods of external light and what an endless variety of sounds are admitted to the busy world within, through those small but beautiful apertures, the eye and the ear! Those delicately penciled arches that hang their lines of loveliness above the mental heaven, are more full of grace and glory than the rainbow! Those blue windows of the mind expose a sight more lovely and profound than the azure depths of the sea or sky! Those rosy portals that give entrance to the invisible Spirit of Life, and whence issue those "winged words" that steal into the lover's heart or the sage's mind, or fly to the uttermost corners of the earth and live for ever, surpass in beauty the orient cloud-gates of the dawn! To trace in such exquisite outworks the state of the interior is an occupation almost worthy of a God! THE FATE OF THE BRAVE. I. THE Hero conquers pain and death A dark oblivion doth not fall Around him, like a funeral pall, As when the dull herd die ! II. But oft his glory forms the light That never dies of visions bright That gifted bards inflame ; And ever like a guiding star It gilds the rough red seas of war, And shows the path to fame. III. Though pale and tremulous lips may swear That life is sweet and fame is air, The taunt ne'er stirs the brave; For oh! how pitiful and brief The life that like a scentless leaf Can charm not from the grave. IV. The purest spirits of the sky May still revert with partial eye To all they loved below, And, while their honored offspring share The lustre of the name they bear, With tender transport glow. V. Oh! who then would not dare the death That heroes die, and seize the wreath The general doom that mocks his kind A trail of living light! Disturbs their coverts green,— No boughs by fluttering wings are brushed, Still hang the dew-drops sheen ;— 'Tis like the fearful reign of death— A solemn trance serene! It is an hour That well might fill The lightest heart with sadness ;- To banish aught of gladness The good with awful dreams to thrill- FAME AND LOVE. I. I SOUGHT the halls of Fame, And raised a suppliant voice, But not one sound responsive breathed my name, Or bade my soul rejoice! II. In comfortless despair To find ambition vain, I leave forlorn the paths of public care, And this low cot regain. Grows drear and dull when tempests intervene With wintry shades and showers; So IV. every form of earth Obeys a mental change, And things that kindle in the light of mirth, In grief, are cold and strange. V. Thus wrapt in cheerless gloom, My home is home no more, The place looks lone, the plants less sweetly bloom, And charm not as before. VI. How dark the threshold seems, How dim the casement flowers, How sickly pale the star-like blossom gleams VII. A dread foreboding falls Ice-cold upon my heart, Perhaps within these dear domestic walls VIII. But hark! yon lattice shakes! A female hand appears, And, lo! the face whose smile of welcome makes Mine eyes forget their tears! IX. The roof with gladness rings And quick feet tread the floor With joyous shout a rosy cherub flings X. And oh, how different now The thoughts that thrill my frame ! I kiss with proud delight each dear one's brow, And dream no more of fame. |