principle they originated-a principle that has turned nature to poetry a kind of mysterious union of mind and creation, like that of soul and body-and one that formed that world of fanciful imagery, which might, of itself, so naturally suggest to the ancients the idea of another and a spiritual existence. By the aid of this it was, they were able to shadow forth the dim outlines of things unseen, and to such a wonderful degree as they did, fathom their own existence. It was their spiritual guide, "ever struggling within them, and urging them forward to something beyond, something better. True they knew not what it was-a dim, undefined, evanescent something. But they felt it was worthy of their effort their ever active spirit was longing, aching to lay hold of it, though it seemed like a vision. They clung to it as to life, though they comprehended it not." Cicero had his ideal of a "perfect orator"-Socrates his perfect image of virtue, enshrined in the chambers of their imagination. In these they saw reflected the end and capacity of their being: through these they caught some faint glimpse of the glories of the soul. No image ever so resembled the truth; and no farther than this principle need we go to satisfy ourselves of the sincerity of the latter philosopher, in maintaining that he had communion with a deity: that deity was the ideal perfection of his own soul, which was in truth"created in the image of God."

Notwithstanding all these astonishing victories of the unaided power of mind, it was with the ancients, as when one wakes from a wild and lofty dream: all was unreal-still an impression of something inconceivably grand, and inspiring, has come over him-he feels it all fiction, yet it resembled the real. Such their views now appear to us, who have attained the truth. Who can look upon men, whose proudest attainments were only as the faint light of dreams, thus struggling between their own thoughts -the teachings of their own high-born nature, and the vail of ignorance that hung over their unrevealed destiny-and not feel a genuine sorrow superior to sympathy for "human ills?" Immortality—a high and virtuous state of happiness-intellectual joy and purity-these filled the conceptions of their noblest minds; yet doubt fearful, and blackened by an uncertain present even, clouded them in gloom and despair.

But, be it said to the honor of after ages, they have found an immortality whence they looked not for it-and they should ever be remembered as men who could, without a revelation, hope for another and a better world.

If the dim light of nature led to such an exalted aspiration, what should not the full glow of truth do to elevate and dignify the soul of man?

F.

290

CALLUM DHU.

AN OLD HIGHLAND STORY VERSIFIED.

"But go ye forth to yon gray stone,
Beneath yon old oak tree,—
For though the secret none may learn,

The shot yourselves shall see.
The bended bow I dare not show,
Till ye go up the hill,
Lest, by remaining here, ye learn
The secret of my skill."

So forth they went to that gray stone
Beneath the old oak tree;

And on the summit of the hill

They turned the shot to see..
And grimly then the old man smiled,
And keenly eyed them there:
"Now shall ye see the bended bow,

But of the shaft beware!"

And as he spake, that bow he raised-
That bow of yew-tree strong,
And at the instant to his ear

He drew the arrow long,
Which, whizzing from the bounding
string,

Like swiftest swallow flew,
And reached the young McGregor chief,
Ere he his weapon drew.

Just as he grasped his claymore's hilt,

All eager for the fray,

Through the broad belt that girt his side

The sharp shaft made its way.
The eagle wing that plumed the dart,

Was dabbled in his gore;
And toppling back, like shattered oak,
He fell to rise no more.
Then Callum raised his battle-cry-
"Take up your wail again;
The hand hath shot another shaft,
That never shot in vain."

A moment fixed the clansmen stand,
Then two have turned to fly;
But Donold feared not mortal man,

He raised his claymore high;
"Our chieftains death demands revenge,
Unpunished shall it go?

Fly if ye list-I fight till death,"

Thus rushed he on the foe.

But naught had Callum Dhu delayed,
When first he arrow sent;
Nor was his arm a moment stayed,

When that first shaft was spent.
As reached his dart McGregor's heart,
Another touch'd the string;
And as the second foe came on,
The second shaft took wing.

So near th' impetuous Donald came,

His arm was raised to smite,
When forth the thirsty missile sprang,
And met him in his flight.

He waved once more his sword, and

strove

To raise the battle yell;

But the dart was planted in his heart,

And headlong down he fell.
Thrice o'er th' ensanguined ground he
rolled,

Then feebly quivering lay;
And at his foeman's very feet,
He gasped his life away ;-
"Ah ha!" exulting Callum cried,
"Take up your wail again;
The hand has shot another shaft,
That never shot in vain."

And fast and fast like startled hares,
The frighted clansmen flew;
But faster whistled after them

The shaft of Callum Dhu.
And in the shoulder Evan pierced,
As down the hills he sped;
High in the air, like stricken deer,
He bounded-and fell dead.

Now Robin flies at double speed,
For still in thought he hears
His enemy's unerring shaft

Shrill whistling in his ears :
But now he's gained the pebbly stream;
He plunges from the shore,-
Safe landed on the farther side,
He fears the foe no more.

Black John has gathered all his clan,
And marches down in war array,
T' avenge his slaughtered son,

Upon the Camerons.

Old Callum for attack prepared,

His men in order set;

And on the borders of the stream
The clans in conflict met.

Then claymores glittered in the sun,
And arrows cut the air;

And the ravens croaked in joy to think
Of the feast preparing there.
Black John McGregor, sword in hand,
Stalked foremost through the fight;
Not one of all the Camerons

Could stand before his might.

Amid the dying and the dead,

The chieftain stands alone; His clansmen all in hot pursuit

Of the flying foe have gone. "And where is Callum Dhu?" he cries, "Shall he escape my wrath? Oh, who will show me where he is? Would he might cross my path!"

An old man on that battle field,

'Mid a heap of corpses lay;

A draught of water clear;
And I will show your deadly foe,
To glut your heart's desire;
For Callum Dhu is living yet,-

Haste! haste! my brain's on fire!"

Straight to the brook black John has gone,
And low he bends him there.
A bow-string's twang! a whistling sound!
A keen shaft cuts the air;-
And tumbling headlong from the bank

Through a ghastly wound in his heaving He falls, pierced through and through;

side,

His life-blood ebbed away.
He beckoned to the raging chief,
And thus to him did say:

"My wound is deep; my senses fail;
My throat is parched and dry,—
Fain would I taste the cooling stream
Once more before I die.
Then take my bonnet to the brook-
The brook that murmurs near;
And bring, to quench my raging thirst,

And the stream runs red with his gush

MILTON AND SHAKSPEARE.

PHILOSOPHY may number among her disciples some of the most celebrated names that adorn the annals of our race. Bacon, Newton, and Locke, will ever be proudly claimed as her most distinguished and devoted followers, and as most eminent and worthy among those who have entered her sanctuary and sat at her feet. These philosophers, men who united to uncommon talents all the depth and reach of immortal genius, may be emphatically called the great high priests of nature, by whose ministrations, the grand secrets of the universe, both of mind and matter, have been revealed, and the sublime mysteries unveiled and interpreted to the popular mind.

We see one far back in a distant age, by a rare exertion of intellectual might, roll away the clouds of error that had so long involved and impeded philosophical inquiries, and with prophetic certainty foretell the rise and progress of the arts. Another, by the noble efforts of his searching mind, solves the chief problems in mechanical philosophy, and opens upon physical science the clearest light of demonstration. A third, with not less steadiness

of vision, marks with accuracy and settles with confidence the laws which direct and determine the phenomena of the invisible world within. And each by the consecration of stupendous abilities to the discovery and advancement of the great truths of science and philosophy, has acquired for himself imperishable re

nown.

As much however as philosophy may boast of her great names, literature has those equally distinguished, whose labors, if less valuable on the score of mere practical utility, are not less entitled to the highest admiration as the products of elevated genius. In English poetry, Milton and Shakspeare present the fairest claim to the noblest pre-eminence. And though they lived centuries ago, not one of those bright luminaries which have since peered above the horizon and crossed the same field of vision, has in the least eclipsed or shaded the lustre of their fame.

Milton's mind was cultivated to the highest degree. To rare endowments he added the severe discipline which is imparted by studies in abstract science. His was a gifted intellect enriched by vast acquirements in ancient and modern learning. Skilled in the tactics of political and religious controversy, the powers of his understanding were invigorated and sharpened by its warm conflicts with vigorous minds. Though he received much from nature, he was still more indebted to the training of science, to the polish of art, and the embellishments of learning for the splendor of his literary career.

Shakspeare was more the child of nature. He grew up like the oak of the forest, in all the luxuriant wildness of native freedom. His mind was not fashioned by rule, not formed in the school of barren dialectics, but seemed to shoot forth under the guidance of its own instincts, and to expand and mature by the spontaneous and self-training impulses of his original genius. When we reflect upon his early circumstances, the age in which he lived, the state of learning and public sentiment at that period, we are inclined to regard him as the most remarkable man that any age or country ever produced. That he should have emerged, in the short period of a few years only, from the obscurity of a shepherd's boy, without the assistance of powerful patronage, depending solely on the unaided resources of his own mind, and have attained to that distinguished place he now holds in the consideration of all who can appreciate him, is, in our view, little short of a miracle of genius.

The efforts of Shakspeare were all expended in the fields of literature, and a rich harvest of reputation has he gathered for his toils. He seems, however, to have written in utter unconsciousness of his matchless abilities, to have been wholly thoughtless of his fame with posterity, not even dreaming that those pictures of men and things, which he seemingly sketched and threw off with scarce an effort, were to bear his name down to future ages.