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. A WARRIOR bold was Callum Dhu, The bow of good yew-tree,— Their chief, black John, McGregor's son, Went forth to hunt the deer. So long they chas'd their mountain game, Rose suddenly to view, The youthful chief, with ardent eye, · His foeman's dwelling saw,"Let us go down to Callum's hut, His famous bow to draw; His stubborn yew, as rumor tells, No man can bend but he ;Come! Donold, Evans, Robin, come! That bow we bent must see. Our oldest warriors say we are The best men in the clan ; And if we were the weakest four, We need not fear one man." So down unto that lonely hut Right speedily they ran. The chief has blown a loud, loud blast! The chief has blown, along; And soon upon its hinges turns The door of oak so strong: And forth to them an old man comes, "Black Callum's on a journey gone, He flung the bow down on the ground, But all in vain he tried: And one by one his followers three, Did their utmost strength essay; But still upon th' unbending yew, All slack the bow-string lay. "No man on earth that bow can bend," At length the chieftain said. The old man smiled to see his rage, And calmly shook his head. "There's many a gallant Cameron Can bend that self-same bow, And I myself have learned the knack, Save Camerons alone. "But go ye forth to yon gray stone, The shot yourselves shall see. So forth they went to that gray stone And on the summit of the hill They turned the shot to see.. But of the shaft beware!" And as he spake, that bow he raised- He drew the arrow long, Like swiftest swallow flew, 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. Was dabbled in his gore; A moment fixed the clansmen stand, He raised his claymore high; Fly if ye list-I fight till death," Thus rushed he on the foe. But naught had Callum Dhu delayed, When that first shaft was spent. So near th' impetuous Donald came, His arm was raised to smite, 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. Then feebly quivering lay; And fast and fast like startled hares, The shaft of Callum Dhu. Now Robin flies at double speed, Shrill whistling in his ears : Black John has gathered all his clan, Upon the Camerons. Old Callum for attack prepared, His men in order set; And on the borders of the stream Then claymores glittered in the sun, And the ravens croaked in joy to think 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; Haste! haste! my brain's on fire!" Straight to the brook black John has gone, Through a ghastly wound in his heaving He falls, pierced through and through; side, His life-blood ebbed away. "My wound is deep; my senses fail; 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. |