he waved his magic wand, what changing scenes arose-what forms of life and beauty started forth from the walls of his prison! With these to come at his bidding, could his base persecutors deprive him of happiness? And when that greater poet, Milton, was, by a more hopeless imprisonment, debarred the sweet face of nature and "from the cheerful ways of men cut off," was he left comfortless? No! the light, he prayed might "shine inwardly," was given him. He "soared above the Aonian mount" and saw sublimer scenes than bard or seer before him-the glories of heaven, the proud revolt, the fearful conflict, the headlong descent, the flaming prison, the hellish conclave. Who shall tell the raptures of his reveries, though held in darkness and pain?

In embodying, finally, his conceptions in living verse the poet receives great pleasure. It is not alone the joy which comes from dwelling upon his own dear fancies and giving them form and feature, but with this come also dreams of immortality. To pass from this beautiful world without leaving behind a memory among its cherished scenes, to take up an abode with the silent dead without leaving a name among the living, has ever appeared to the sensitive mind a miserable doom. Nor is it a feeling to be censured or derided; it is as deep seated in our being as the nature of the soul, distinctly pointing to a life beyond the grave. This sentiment, existing more or less in all as a part of their nature, is most powerful in the breast of the poet; and, as genius is always sooner or later conscious of its strength, he cannot fail to catch through the coming years a glimpse of his destiny. With joy, therefore, does he give expression to his burning thoughts and lofty imaginings, trusting rather to the unbiased tribunal of posterity than to the partial decisions of the present. If the cynical critics of his own age deride or condemn his muse, he bids them "howl their idle wrath,

While she still silvers o'er their gloomy path,"

believing, like the immortal Milton, he shall produce a work, which "posterity will not willingly let die."

But if the poetic temperament is calculated to bring its possessor all this enjoyment, why, it has been often asked, have so many poets, perhaps the greater part, led a gloomy, wretched existence? The reason is plain and simple: they were not virtuous. The Creator has made it a law of the universe for all creatures to seek after happiness. He has made it an equal law, that moral beings shall gain it only in the path of virtue. In accordance with the first of these laws, the whole human race are in pursuit of happiness; but they seek it not in the path prescribed. We begin in early life, each in his own devious course, to pursue some object that seems surrounded with the radiance of bliss; but whenever it is attained, if at all, the alluring colors still glitter be

yond, and we follow the retreating rainbow over hill and dale, till we sink in the valley of death. And if this is to some extent the conduct of all, it would be most especially that of the poet, in whom warm feelings and a lively imagination tend to lead the reason astray. His condition will appear still more difficult, if we consider that the real poet, of whom there are few, is of a loftier, diviner nature than others, and that the higher a moral being is placed in the gradation from the lowest to the Deity he has need of greater virtue to secure him happiness. But the fact, that the qualities of the poet when perverted may make their possessor wretched, destroys not the argument, that they are calculated to yield him great enjoyment. If Collins, Chatterton, (Cowper's melancholy was constitutional,) Shelley, Byron, and Rosseau had possessed pure hearts and upright minds, Happiness would have made them her peculiar favorites.

When we contemplate, however, the real sources of misery in the world, the various forms of wretchedness, the desolations wrought by the passions of men upon the face of nature, and consider that all these, marring man's happiness and the loveliness of life, cannot fail to pain the sensitive mind, and that the evils present and to come are ever great enough without being magnified by the imagination, it would seem that earth is not the true abode of Poetry. Her chosen minstrel, Burns, may warble sweet notes upon his native lyre, but their tones are sad and mournful, the lyre is soon broken, and the minstrel's own heart crushed and withered. Divine, ethereal in her nature, she belongs to a brighter clime-to a holier habitation. Her place is Heaven!

C.

STANZAS

ON THE LATE TORNADO.

OLD Æolus sat musing in his cavern
Upon the strange vicissitudes of fate,
And thought of turning it into a tavern,
The gales had been so mutinous of late,
Where, being old, and fond withal of leisure,
He might sit still, and "raise the wind" at pleasure.

With these designs were mingled sad reflections
On broken sceptre, and diminished reign,

And many melancholy recollections

Of ancient soverignty o'er air and main,
When he received the visits of the goddesses,
In bustle (vide Virgil) and short boddices.

This march of mind, quoth the old cloud compeller,
May, in its way, be excellently fine:

But still, to use the words of Mr. Weller,

I see not why it should intrude on mine:
It shows, by meddling with pneumatic science,
Too many airs and one air of defiance.

Inventive man derides my tempests' wrath,
And sailors, by their science nautical,
('Tis a most naughty calling,) cut their path
Safe through the rolling waves in vessels tall;
Yet crafty Neptune punishes the sinners
By forcing from them tribute of their dinners.

I too, in my domains of atmosphere

Will make aspiring man my rights confess;
All shall be clouds, there shall be no Cape Clear,
Vanes shall be vain-all almanacs shall cease;

No steamboats run-from Boston to Malacca-
Here the god paused, and took some more tobacco.

And starting, in a transport quite pathetic,

From reveries so unpleasantly done brown, He took to exercise peripatetic,

Pacing his sand floored grotto up and down; Then seized a couch, and blew till blue in features, A summons loud for some one of his creatures.

Ho! Eurus, Caurus, Notus, Auster, Boreas!

Rush from your rocky dungeon's rending portals; Away! o'er earth and ocean sweep victorious,

Blend sea with sky! blast disobedient mortals! This said, he cleft a cliff off with his trident, And the freed gales roared gaily through the wide rent.

A gathering gloom grew over the grey sky,

A whisp'ring murmur crept through forest leaves; The screaming sea bird wheeled her from on high, And sought the shelter of foam beaten caves. Man, cowering cowardly, the storm expected, And frantic cows ran round with tails erected.

The whirlwind's growing voice roars from afar,
Wild roll the writhing clouds in eddies driven,
With rushing speed fierce blasts in circles war,

Sweep over earth and dim the light of heaven;
Trembles the solid ground:-in mid air mingle
Rocks, trees, and cabbages, and bits of shingle.

Swift rides the tempest on its cloud wings sable,
All things once stationary fly like papers;

Stables become surprisingly unstable,

And fences quit their posts in sportive capers;
The storm takes up extremely large collections,
And then distributes them in all directions.

Tubs, books and bridges, basins, boards and victuals,
Bricks, beds and pans, and hats, and pots, and tables,
Cats, carpets, children, churches, clothes and kettles,
Domestic fowls, and kitchen vegetables;

Performing graceful movements of gyration,
Make air a "medium of circulation."

458

THE HEIR OF LICHSTENSTEIN.

A SKETCH.

"I could a tale unfold whose lightest word

Would harrow up the soul, freeze thy young blood,
Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres,
Thy knotted and combined locks to part,

Like quills upon the fretful porcupine."-Hamlet.

ALTHOUGH the daughter of the haughty Count Lichstenstein, Meta scorned not the attentions of the noble, yet lowly born, Adolphus, the last scion of the once powerful but now obscure family of Heermann. The friend and associate of a much attached brother, in his appearance highly prepossessing and with a mind of remarkable brilliancy, it was but natural to suppose, that she would imbibe a strong affection for young Heermann, a graduate of the first German university, and now an honorable competitor with her brother Carl for the first rank in the medical profession. Nothing opposed the gratification of his wishes in the free reciprocation of her love but the stern displeasure of the Count, who, being favorable to the addresses of Hans Haller, an individual of high lineage and fine appearance, but of inferior mental abilities, suffered him to press earnestly his suit. Thus favoring the clandestine interviews of him with whom she could never be united, and at the same time obliged to countenance the solicitations of one whom she had learned to despise, the fond girl, in the endurance of these ills, lived with but little pleasure. Although beautiful, and of extremely fascinating manners and possessing a highly cultivated mind, she was yet not entirely free from those superstitious feelings and fears which were at that period so prevalent throughout Germany. As time slid rapidly away and the winter months drew near, during which by her father's strict injunction she was to unite herself to the man whom she abhorred, she suddenly became much changed in appearance. The sprightly manner which hitherto, notwithstanding her incessant grief, she had uniformly exhibited to all, was superseded by a dark shade of melancholy. Her countenance, lately beaming with animation, now habitually wore an air of sadness. The rich melodious tones of her voice fell not so softly as was their wont upon the ear. She rarely spoke. And yet her incessant sorrow found no relief in tears. There was not the slightest alleviation of her distress.

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