Looks from the Oak's top branch o'er verdant scene,
Or from the cliff on Ocean's breast serene ;
Far in the pathless forest as he will,

If lost yet fearless, strays unwearied still;
Lists to the wild-wood numbers, learns the song,
Blends with the feathered race in chorus strong;
By streams, trees, hills, and clouds, instructed well,
And of their sounds the solitary spell.
-Within his soul's recesses, hidden deep,
The treasures lie-no visions of his sleep-
But waking dreams and influences free,

That shape the mind, and doom what it shall be.
'Tis thus" the Child is Father of the Man,"
As sings the sage-we end as we began:-
Blest spirit he, who feels one spirit reign
In high and low, throughout all Being's chain-
Earth's glowworm weds with angel of the sky,
In that strong bond of generous sympathy.
-Thus grave Hogarth, though haply over-rude,
Great moralist, if rightly understood,
Saw not alone in objects mean and low,

But in things bad the soul of good could show.
Ah! in that age to come whereof we deem,
Things evil are not, or but as a dream;
The beauteous Soul shall in a beauteous Form
Glow on the sense, more dazzling nor less warm.
O Nature! hast thou in thy wide domain
Such shapes, such scenes, as haunt the Muse's brain?
Ashamed and silent, thy Perfection shrinks
From what the Arts express, or Genius thinks-
For of the spirit even such are they,
Purer than air, and brighter than the day.
-No Beauty is like theirs, no Grandeur soars
To heights like those which Poesy explores;
This work-day world how poor to that ideal!
Less vast, less bright, less lovely, and less real!
Transcending all, the Soul outstrips slow Time,
Excels the sun, herself alone sublime.
Mountains, waves, skies, the works of plastic art,
Are of the soul, not she of them a part;
Hence yearns she still, however fair they be,
For objects fairer than the things we see.
Hence ne'er on earth, so great immortal pride,
May she find rest, or say-" I'm satisfied!"
The Age comes not, howe'er the race improve,
That shall content desire and limit love.
Still the creative spirit shall surpass

All future, as it shames what is, and was-
Yet Man hath hope, and be that hope fulfilled!
What Fancy now projects Truth once shall build;
And after-times, with auspice kind and mild,
Hail to a better world the new-born child.

Then Faith shall not alone in shades of sense
Seek or express the adored Intelligence,
Nor homage only sentimental pay,
Nor only in the spirit him obey;

But, all in all,.. sense, heart and spirit,..link
In one great chain let down from ether's brink :
Like that bright Cone of Glory from on high,
By which the sunbeams travelling from the sky,
And heaven-ward vapour rising from the earth,
Thy vision, Israel! shadow faintly forth.
Its base on earth, with heaven its apex mixed,
The Column soars, attracted and transfixed-
There, like the sun, shall God appear above,
Angels pervade with messages of love;
And, through the pyramid completed shine,
Consummate manhood! majesty divine!

These sacred truths revere. Meanwhile, 'tis true,
Man's life is mixed of darnel and of rue-
To Labour born, and destined still to Grief,
For stolen fire, like that Celestial Thief.
Yet hard it were if Genius, proved a curse,

A fatal gift, life's miseries made worse.

-Hath there been One, on whom bestowed in vain,
It seemed to goad to wrong and plunge in pain?
These great desires, these aspirations high,
Make they all tame that meets the sensual eye?
'Tis not the more of Genius, but the less,
That forms the bard's capricious wretchedness,
Who, still to some exclusive path confined,
Rejects the wiser ways that cheer the mind.
In each estate of life, through all degrees,
'Tis given to heighten pleasure and to please;
As at the Feast of Shells," in days of old,
The Minstrel's" Joy of Grief" could heroes mould,
And still shall be a blessing to the best;

Of power to charm the mind when most distrest;
When sought, the Muse has charmed its ill away,
Which else had crushed the wretch it aimed to slay.
Such power of pleasure in the gift is given,
As had redeemed a Chatterton to heaven.

Yet blame not him, o'er whose domestic care
Hangs the black shadow of unchanged despair,
If save in song, of station or of place
He fail to serve in each laborious grace.
Enough if each one trust for life fulfil;
Who more performs, 'tis true, is greater still,
Does more than man from fellow man can claim,
And merits praise; who less, deserves no blame.
More strength of mind, more fortitude of soul,
Might, haply, nature's, fortune's, freaks control;
Nor leave defect in him we fain would praise—
Yet censure not-heed rather thine own ways;—

Some faculty laid waste, in each-in all-
A wreck, remains remembrance of the Fall.
So in the dwelling of the alien Jew,
Some ruined wall or chamber still to view,
Of thy demolished Temple, mournful sign,
Memorial sad presents, lost Palestine !

Life's quarry rude awaits the Artist's power,
And teems with Shapes for his creative hour—
Who from the mass the fairest shall produce,
Best Artist he; best, Genius! knows thy use.

The appointed work, with labour and with pain,
Must man evolve ere he may sleep again-
Exalted act, whence Art, whence Science flows,
And conquered Nature leaves to man repose.
The martyr's blood shall not be shed in vain,
Nor throb with glorious thought the sage's brain,
But o'er the Chaos spiritual Form,

Wake with the Light, and still the haunted storm.
Thus where swept desart erst its barren range,
Arose that central City of Exchange,

Where Tyre and Afric, Babylon and Ind,
With Israel met in commerce more refined;

Majestic Tadmor, by the royal sage

Built in his wisdom, wisest of his age.

What is Palmyra now ?-and, Greece, thy son,* Who drank with joy his death since thou hadst won, Thy last of heroes, was he idly brave,

Whose land became the country of the slave?
Nay; great example lives, and passes o'er
Whither it lists, to embreathe and cherish more,
Rousing that ray of heaven, the Soul, to be
Partaker of its fame's eternity,

Which shews a genius then, that may awake
The Muse to sing her actions for its sake.
Or should it not-should great example die,
Forgotten, spurned, disdained ingloriously-
Yet it that Spirit raised wherein it dwelt,
Yet by that Soul was Inspiration felt-
Let this suffice thee: One immortal Soul
Outsums the myriad worlds that star the pole.
The Man by whom mortality's attire

Was once cast off, unstained though proved by fire,
Was still divine, his work was still complete,
Even when Religion spurned him from his seat—
Forgotten soon, while, in his holy place,

Idols usurped his altar and his grace.
But it is written that the seed must die,

Be buried, and corrupt apparently

What transient growths, fulfilled their brief defence, Burst and decay, and droop and whither thence

Philopomen.

Ere, in its kind restored, it re-arise,

And the Tree spread its honours to the skies.
The line of beauty winds with airy grace,
Nor runs directly Man a forthright race,
But tracks a wandering stream that turns about,
Yet in the Ocean lets its issues out.

Lo, Asia still, where Caucasus extends

His range of mountains, still her children sends—
A warlike people, victors still in fight;

Even Rome, the Almighty, falls before their might!
O'er the earth's breadth, and numerous as the sea,
Spreads the rude Goth, the sire of realms to be;
By fire from heaven baptized, where'er he rests,
Redeemed to Truth, and won to Law's behests-
The warrior of the Cross, whose sacred zeal,
Howe'er scorned now, waked mind its power to feel,
Taught by the polished manners of the East,
Life's better arts, by Liberty increast—
New worlds discovered, not to space confined,
New worlds of Thought-hence Vasco speeds to Ind—
Hence the brave Genoese, with dauntless breast,
Ocean explores for Islands of the West-
Till, freed from what would shackle or oppress,
Lord of the world, Mind sways the Wilderness,
Uproots the Forest; bids the Mountain bow,
And where was desart, makes an Eden now.

Atlantic Land! Clime of the kingless free!
Dull is the soul that muses not on thee!
Thine all-unshackled Genius, in youth's morn,
May bathe in dew-bright pleasures, earthly born;
Though born of earth, yet, let the sun exhale,
As shed from heaven their nurture shall avail.
Still let the Old World's superstitious dream,
Sweat of the stars the glittering moisture deem,
Thou know'st whatever blessing heaven may send,
Earth first must vigour of her own expend-
And Nature gain maturity and power,
Ere Spirit may o'errule the teeming hour.

New veins of life, new forms of thought are thine, New elements to quicken and combine:

No past to reverence, and no despots dead
Or living to subdue mind's lustihead :

Hence teems thy soil with Men of mighty mould,
Sagacious, prudent, brave, sedate and bold,
Whose wisdom may their ancestors supply,
Of a far race themselves the ancestry-
Men who have risen in heroic pride,

And burst their chains and cast their yoke aside.
Hence, Genius of the Land, whose favoured Son
Boasts of a Franklin, and a Washington,
Shalt thou, for patriot bard of future time,

Associate memories lasting and sublime

While o'er the Ocean Intellectual Light,
From East to West, makes all the voyage bright,
Bidding New States from Old take warning note,
From isles afar to coasts the most remote.

Rise, Genius! kneeling yet at Franklin's grave,
Where, trod by Fame, the grass has ceased to wave-
Take thy delights, in contrast while appear,
Here civil man, the dusky savage there;

Here the cleared forest; there, in ancient state,
The sacred Wood, as yet inviolate.

-Hie to the Sylvan Temple, where the air
Is eloquent with Psalmody and Prayer,

Till from the platform rude, the Preacher's voice
Calls on the Soul to fear-hope-love-rejoice-
And the great Spirit stoops the heart to bless,
In that Cathedral of the Wilderness.
-Then to the arena of the Woods repair,
And join the Indian game that revels there:
Lo, the wild youth-what fortitude of mind
Supports the Garteeth* in his flesh that grind,
To make his limbs more lithe for vigorous play
With ball and race upon the coming day?-
Hark! to the yell-the combatants come on-
In antic wise, and dance in unison—

There stand expectant-now the ball is thrown-
At once their bats are raised, and strike it down;
But one has grasped it-straight the race begins-
For, if he hurl it through the goal, he wins-
Breathless their speed, and furious is their strife,
As if the prize were for their land or life!
-Wild art! but gaze too upon Nature wild,
Genius, thou winged boy, thou pensive child!
Where that great Snake, the Mississippi winds,
Like the Old Serpent, Error, o'er Men's minds;
Deep as the Abyss o'er which it tracks its way,
Where Thought is lost in chaos void of day—
The Heart-the Heart-whose mysteries profound
No wit can fathom, wisdom will not sound!
-Or where Niagara, o'er its falling rock,
Descends, a lunar sea, a thunder shock,
Crushing the Wind-god with his foot of spray,
In vain for freedom raging night and day,
While the enormous Water to the Moon
Seems as 'twould swell, and grasp the gazer soon-
Mysterious awe shall seize thy raptured mind,
Till dizzy, tranced, it sinks unconscious, blind,
While dreaming Reverie mid the mighty noise,
Soars to the sky, and tastes immortal joys;
And, when returned, contemplate in the scene
A type of Heaven's Hyaline serene,

The teeth of a fish so named.