Nestor's wisdom, the chivalry of Manlius, the native eloquence of

Cicero,

The skill of Xenophon, the spirit of Alcibiades, the firmness of a Maccabæan mother,

Brotherly love that Antigone might envy, the honor and the fortitude of Regulus?

Alas! their glory and their praise have vanished like a summer cloud:

Alas! that they are dea dindeed; they are not written down in the Book of the living.

HIGH is the privilege of Authorship: I purify mine office;

Albeit earthly stains pollute it in my hands.

For it is to the world a teacher and a guide, Mentor of that gay Telemachus;

Warning, comforting, and helping, -a lover and a friend of Man: Heaven's almoner, earth's health, patient minister of goodness, With kind and zealous pen, the wise religious blesseth:

Nature's worshipper, and neophyte of grace, rich in tender sympathies,

With kindled soul and flashing eye the poet poureth out his heart

ful:

Priest of truth, champion of innocence, warder of the gates of

praise,

Carefully with sifting search laboreth the pale historian :
Error's enemy,
and acolyte of science, firm in sober argument,
The calm philosopher marshaleth his facts, noting on his page their

principles.

These pour mercies upon men; and others, little less in honor,
By cheerful wit and graphic tale refreshening the harassed spirit.
But there be other some beside, buyers and sellers in the temple,
Who shame their high vocation, greedy of inglorious gain;
There be, who, fabricating books, heed of them meanly as of mer-
chandise,

And seek nor use, nor truth, nor fame, but sell their minds for lucre:

O false brethren! ye wot indeed the labor, but are witless of the love;

O lying prophets, chilled in soul, unquickened by the life of inspira

tion !

And there be, who, frivolous and vain, seek to make others foolish,

Snaring Youth by loose, sweet song, and Age by selfish maxim; Cleverly heartless, and wittily profane, they swell the river of cor

ruption :

Brilliant satellites of sin, my soul, be not found among their

company.

And there be, who, haters of religion, toil to prove it priestcraft,
Owning none other aim nor hope, but to confound the good:
Woe unto them! for their works shall live; yea, to their utter con-
demnation :

Woe! for their own handwriting shall testify against them forever.

PURE is the happiness of Authorship: I glorify mine office;
Albeit lightly having sipped the cup of its lower pleasures.

For it is to feel with a father's heart, when he yearneth on the child of his affections;

To rejoice in a man's own miniature world, gladdened by its rare

arrangement.

The poem, is it not a fabric of mind? we love what we create:
That choice and musical order, —how pleasant is the toil of compo-

sition!

Yea, when the volume of the universe was blazoned out in beauty by its Author,

God was glad, and blessed his work; for it was very good.

And shall not the image of his Maker be happy in his own mind's

doing,

Looking on the structure he hath reared, gratefully with sweet complacence?

Shall not the Minerva of his brain, panoplied and perfect in propor

tions,

Gladden the soul and give light unto the eyes of him the travailing

parent?

Go to the sculptor, and ask him of his dreams, wherefore are his nights so moonlit ?

Angel faces, and beautiful shapes, fascinate the pale Pygmalion :
Go to the painter, and trace his reveries, wherefore are his days

so sunny?

Choice design and skilful coloring charm the flitting hours of Par

rhasius:

Even so, walking in his buoyancy, intoxicate with fairy fancies, The young enthusiast of authorship goeth on his way rejoicing: Behold, he is gallantly attended; legions of thrilling thoughts

Throng about the standard of his mind, and call his will their cap

tain;

Behold, his court is as a monarch's; ideas and grand imagina

tions

Swell with gorgeous cavalcade the splendor of his Spiritual State; he is delicately served; for oftentimes, in solitary calmness,

Behold,

Some mental fair Egeria smileth on her Numa's worship;

Behold, he is happy; there is gladness in his eye, and his heart is a sealed fountain,

Bounding secretly with joys unseen, and keeping down its ecstasy of pleasure!

YEA, how dignified, and worthy, full of privilege and happiness,
Standeth in majestic independence the self-ennobled Author!
For God hath blessed him with a mind, and cherished it in tender-
ness and purity,

Hath taught it in the whisperings of wisdom, and added all the riches of content:

Therefore, leaning on his God, a pensioner for soul and body,
His spirit is the subject of none other, calling no man Master.
His hopes are mighty and eternal, scorning small ambitions:
He hideth from the pettiness of praise, and pitieth the feebleness

of envy:

If he meet honors, well; it may be his humility to take them:

If he be rebuked, better; his veriest enemy shall teach him.

For the master-mind hath a birthright of eminence; his cradle is an eagle's eyrie :

Need but to wait till his wings are grown, and genius soareth to the sun :

To creeping things upon the mountain leaveth he the gradual as

cent,

Resting his swiftness on the summit only for a higher flight.

Glad in clear, good conscience, lightly doth he look for commenda

tion;

What if the prophet lacketh honor? for he can spare that praise: The honest giant careth not to be patted on the back by pygmies: Flatter greatness, - he brooketh it good-humoredly blame him,

thou tiltest at a pyramid:

:

Yet, just censure of the good never can he hear without contrition;

Neither would he miss one wise man's praise, for scarce is that

jewel and costly.

Only for the herd of common minds, and the vulgar trumpetings of

fame,

If aught he heedeth in the matter, his honor is sought in their neglect.

Slender is the marvel, and little is the glory, when round his luscious fruits

The worm, and the wasp, and the multitude of flies, are gathered as

to banquet;

Fashion's freak, and the critical sting, and the flood of flatteries, he scorneth;

Cheerfully asking of the crowd the favor to forget him:

The while his blooming fruits ripen in richer fragrance,

A feast for the few, and the many yet unborn, who still shall love their savor.

So, then, humbly with his God, and proudly independent of his fel

lows,

Walketh in pleasures multitudinous the man ennobled by his pen: He hath built up, glorious architect, a monument more durable than brass;

His children's children shall talk of him in love, and teach their sons his honor;

His dignity hath set him among princes, the universe is debtor to his worth,

His privilege is blessing forever, his happiness shineth now,

For he standeth of that grand Election, each man one among a

thousand,

Whose sound is gone out into all lands, and their words to the end of the world!

OF MYSTERY.

ALL things being are in mystery; we expound mysteries by mysteries;

And yet the secret of them all is one in simple grandeur :

All intricate, yet each path plain, to those who know the way;

All unapproachable, yet easy of access, to them that hold the key: We walk among labyrinths of wonder, but thread the mazes with a

clew;

We sail in chartless seas, but, behold! the pole-star is above us. For, counting down from God's good will, thou meltest every riddle

into him,

The axiom of reason is an undiscovered God, and all things live in

his ubiquity;

There is only one great secret; but that one hideth every where; How should the Infinite be understood in Time, when it stretcheth on ungrasped forever?

Can a halting Edipus of earth guess that enigma of the universe? Not one: the sword of faith must cut the Gordian knot of Nature.

GOD, pervading all, is in all things the mystery of each;

The wherefore of its character and essence, the fountain of its vir tues and its beauties.

The child asketh of its mother, Wherefore is the violet so sweet?
The mother answereth her babe, -Darling, God hath willed it.
And sages, diving into science, have but a profundity of words;
They track for some few links the circling chain of consequence,
And then, after doubts and disputations, are left where they began,
At the bald conclusion of a clown, - things are because they are.
Wherefore are the meadows green? is it not to gratify the eye?
But why should greenness charm the eye? such is God's good will.
Wherefore is the ear attuned to a pleasure in musical sounds,
And who set a number to those sounds, and fixed the laws of har-
mony ?

Who taught the bird to build its nest, or lent the shrub its life,
Or poised in the balances of order the power to attract and to repel ?
Who continueth the worlds, and the sea, and the heart in motion?