Ex. CXXXV.-THE INQUIRY. TELL me, ye winged winds, Where mortals weep no more; Whose billows round me play, The bliss for which he sighs, And friendship never dies? J. MONTGOMERY. The loud waves, roaring in perpetual flow, Tell me, in all thy round, Hast thou not seen some spot Might find a happier lot? Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe; Oh! tell me, Hope and Faith, Is there no resting-place From sorrow, sin, and death? Is there no happy spot, Where mortals may be blessed, And weariness a rest? Faith, Hope, and Love,-best boons to mortals given, Waved their bright wings, and whispered, "Yes, in heaven!" Ex. CXXXVI.—ANCIENT AND MODERN PRODUCTIONS. C. SUMNER. THE classics possess a peculiar charm, from the circum. stance that they have been the models, I might almost say the masters, of composition and thought, in all ages. In the contemplation of these august teachers of mankind, we are filled with conflicting emotions. They are the early voice of the world, better remembered and more cherished still than all the intermediate words that have been uttered, as the lessons of childhood still haunt us when the impressions of later years have been effaced from the mind. But they show with most unwelcome frequency the tokens of the world's childhood, before passion had yielded to the sway of reason and the affections. They want the highest charm of purity, of righteousness, of elevated sentiments, of love to God and man. It is not in the frigid philosophy of the porch and academy that we are to seek these; not in the marvellous teachings of Socrates, as they come mended by the mellifluous words of Plato; not in the resounding line of Homer, on whose inspiring tale of blood Alexander pillowed his head; not in the animated strain of Pindar, where virtue is pictured in the successful strife of an athlete at the Isthmian games; not in the torrent of Demosthenes, dark with self-love and the spirit of vengeance; not in the fitful philosophy and intemperate eloquence of Tully; not in the genial libertinism of Horace, or the stately atheism of Lucretius. No! these must not be our masters; in none of these are we to seek the way of life. For eighteen hundred years the spirit of these writers has been engaged in weaponless contest with the Sermon on the Mount, and those two sublime commandments on which hang all the law and the prophets. The strife is still pending. Heathenism, which has possessed itself of such siren forms, is not yet exorcised. It still tempts the young, controls the affairs of active life, and haunts the ineditations of age. Our own productions, though they may yield to those of the ancients in the arrangement of ideas, in method, in beauty of form, and in freshness of illustration, are immeasurably superior in the truth, delicacy, and elevation of their sentiments, above all, in the benign recognition of that great Christian revelation, the brotherhood of man. How vain are eloquence and poetry, compared with this heaven-descended truth! Put in one scale that simple utterance, and in the other the lore of antiquity, with its accumulating glosses and commentaries, and the last will be light and trivial in the balance. Greek poetry has been likened to the song of the nightingale as she sits in the rich, symmetrical crown of the palm-tree, trilling her thick-warbled notes; but even this is Je sweet and tender than the music of the human heart. Ex. CXXXVII—THANATOPSIS. W. C. BRYANT. To him who, in the love of Nature, holds Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, To Nature's teachings, while from all around- In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Shalt thou retire alone-nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down That make the meadows green; and poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man! The golden sun, The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes So live, that when thy summons comes, to join The innumerable caravan, that moves To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Ex. CXXXVIII.-THE RAVEN. EDGAR A. POE. ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tap ping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door "Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door Only this, and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, And each seperate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had tried to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost Le nore For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Le nore Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic terrors never felt be fore; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeat ing, ""Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber doorSome late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;— This it is, and nothing more." Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I," or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; |