The seldom awakened by any object, custom, or association. new, the equal, the attainable, constantly deaden our faith in infi nite possibilities. Life rarely seems miraculous, and the commonplace abounds. There is much to excite, and little to chasten and awe. We need to see the blessedness of a rational conservatism, as well as the inspiring call for reform. There are venerable and lovely agencies in this existence of ours which it is sacrilege to scorn. The wisdom of our renowned leaders in all departments is too restless and conscious to be desirable, and it would be better for our boasted "march of mind," if, like the quaint British essayist, a few more "were dragged along in the procession." An extravagant spirit of utility invades every scene of life, however sequestered. We attempt not to brighten the grim features of care, or relieve the burdens of responsibility. The daughter of a distinguished law professor in Europe was in the habit of lecturing in her father's absence. To guard against the fascination of her charms, which it was feared would divert the attention of the students, a curtain was drawn before the fair teacher, from behind which she imparted her instructions. Thus do we carefully keep out of sight the poetical and veil the spirit of beauty, that we may worship undisturbed at the shrine of the practical. We ever seek the light of knowledge; but are content that no fertilising warmth lend vitality to its beams. When the returning pilgrim approaches the shores of the new world, the first sign of the vicinity of his native land is traced in hues of rare glory on the western sky. The sunsets grow more and more gorgeous as he draws near, and while he leans over the bulwarks of a gallant vessel, (whose matchless architecture illustrates the mechanical skill of her birthplace,) and watches their shifting brilliancy, it associates itself with the fresh promise and young renown of his native land; and when, from the wide solitude of the Atlantic, he plunges once more amid her eager crowds, it is with the earnest, and, I must think, patriotic wish that with her prosperous activity might mingle more of the poetry of life. But what the arrangements of society fail to provide, the indi vidual is at liberty to seek. Nowhere are natural beauty and grandeur more lavishly displayed than on this continent. In no part of the world are there such noble rivers, beautiful lakes, and magnificent forests. The ermine robe of winter is, in no land, spread with more dazzling effect, nor can the woodlands of any clime present a more varied array of autumnal tints. Nor need we resort to the glories of the universe alone. Domestic life exists with us in rare perfection; and it requires but the heroism of sincerity, and the exercise of taste, to make the fireside as rich in poetical associations, as the terrace and veranda of southern Ands. Literature, too, opens a rich field. We can wander through Eden to the music of the blind bard's harp, or listen in the orange groves of Verona, beneath the quiet moonlight, to the sweet vows of Juliet. Let us, then, bravely obey our sympathies, and find, in candid and devoted relations with others, freedom from the constraints of prejudice and form. Let us foster the enthusiasm which exclusive intellectual cultivation would extinguish. Let us detach ourselves sufficiently from the social machinery to realise that we are not integral parts of it; and thus summon into the horizon of destiny those hues of beauty, love, and truth, which are the most glorious reflections of the soul! [JOHN KEATS was born in London in 1796. He died at Rome at the early age of twenty-four. Every one knows Byron's allusion to the supposed cause of his death : """Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, Should let itself be snuffed out by an article." Lord Houghton, himself no mean poet, has published a delightful Life of John Keats. It is a charming contribution to literary biography, and unquestionably tends to raise the general appreciation of the character of that most original poet. We find from his letters that Keats stood up manfully against neglect and abuse; that he had a noble confidence in his own powers to accomplish something excellent; that his poetical capacity was not an im mature thing, but was gradually nourished and enlarged by earnest thought and patient study. But, with all his calm endurance, we can scarcely bring ourselves to agree with his accomplished biographer, that the ungenerous attacks upon him did not deeply trouble his spirit. Great minds have the same loathing as Coriolanus, on a display of their wounds. It is delightful, at any rate, to know that such oppression did not enfeeble his mental energy, and that the poetical temperament in his case and in hundreds of others, has been proved to possess the best courage-that of patience and fortitude. Keats published, in 1818, "Endymion, a Poetic Romance;" in 1820, "Lamia, Isabella, the Eve of St Agnes, and other Poems." These may now be obtained in a cheap form.] Full many a dreary hour have I past, The purple west, and, two bright streaks between, That the bright glance from beauty's eyelid slanting But there are times when those that love the bay A sudden glow comes on them, nought they see It has been said, dear George, and true I hold it, "Twould make the poet quarrel with the rose. These wonders strange he sees, and many more, Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress, And staidly paces higher up, and higher, Like a sweet nun in holiday attire? Ah, yes! much more would start into his sight— And should I ever see them, I will tell you Such tales as needs must with amazement spell you. These aye the living pleasures of the bard: But richer far posterity's award. What does he murmur with his latest breath, While his proud eye looks through the film of death? |