And thought, finding not a vent, smouldereth, gnawing at the

heart,

And the man sinketh in his sphere, for lack of empty sounds. There be many cares and sorrows thou hast not yet consi dered,

And well may thy soul rejoice in the fair privilege of speech; For at every turn to want a word,—thou canst not guess that want;

It is as lack of breath or bread: life hath no grief more galling.

COME, I will tell thee of a joy, which the parasites of pleasure have not known,

Though earth and air and sea have gorged all the appetites of sense.

Behold, what fire is in his eye, what fervor on his cheek? That glorious burst of winged words!-how bound they from his tongue!

The full expression of the mighty thought, the strong triumphant argument,

The rush of native eloquence, resistless as Niagara,

The keen demand, the clear reply, the fine poetic image, The nice analogy, the clenching fact, the metaphor bold and free,

The grasp of concentrated intellect wielding the omnipotence of truth,

The grandeur of his speech, in his majesty of mind!

Champion of the right,-patriot, or priest, or pleader of the innocent cause,

Upon whose lips the mystic bee hath dropped the honey of persuasion, (21)

Whose heart and tongue have been touched, as of old, by the live coal from the altar,

How wide the spreading of thy peace, how deep the draught of thy pleasures!

To hold the multitude as one, breathing in measured cadence,

A thousand men with flashing eyes, waiting upon thy will;
A thousand hearts kindled by thee with consecrated fire,
Ten flaming spiritual hecatombs offered on the mount of

God:

*And now a pause, a thrilling pause,-they live but in thy words,

Thou hast broken the bounds of self, as the Nile at its rising. Thou art expanded into them, one faith, one hope, one spirit, They breathe but in thy breath, their minds are passive unto

thine,

Thou turnest the key of their love, bending their affections to thy purpose,

And all, in sympathy with thee, tremble with tumultuous emotions.

Verily, O man, with truth for thy theme, eloquence shall throne thee with archangels.

OF READING.

ONE drachma for a good book, and a thousand talents for a true friend:

So standeth the market where scarce is ever costly:

Yea, were the diamonds of Golconda common as shingles on

the shore,

A ripe apple would ransom kings before a shining stone: And so, were a wholesome book as rare as an honest friend, To choose the book be mine: the friend let another take. For altered looks and jealousies and fears have none entrance there:

The silent volume listeneth well, and speaketh when thou listest:

It praiseth thy good without envy, it chideth thine evil without malice,

It is to thee thy waiting slave, and thine unbending teacher. Need to humor no caprice, need to bear with no infirmity,

Thy sin, thy slander, or neglect, chilleth not, quencheth not,

its love;

Unalterably speaketh it the truth, warped nor by error nor interest;

For a good book is the best of friends, the same to-day and for ever.

To draw thee out of self, thy petty plans and cautions,

To teach thee what thou lackest, to tell thee how largely thou art blest,

To lure thy thought from sorrow, to feed thy famished mind, To graft another's wisdom on thee, pruning thine own folly, Choose discreetly, and well digest the volume most suited to

thy case,

Touching not religion with levity, nor deep things when thou art wearied.

Thy mind is freshened by morning air, grapple with science and philosophy;

Noon hath unnerved thy thoughts, dream for awhile on

fictions;

Grey evening sobereth thy spirit, walk thou then with worshippers;

But reason shall dig deepest in the night,and fancy fly most free.

O BOOKS, ye monuments of mind, concrete wisdom of the wisest ;

Sweet solaces of daily life; proofs and results of immortality; Trees yielding all fruits, whose leaves are for the healing of the nations;

Groves of knowledge, where all may eat, nor fear a flaming sword;

Gentle comrades, kind advisers; friends, comforts, treasures: Helps, governments, diversities of tongues; who can weigh your worth ?

To walk no longer with the just; to be driven from the porch of science;

To bid a long adieu to those intimate ones, poets, philoso

phers, and teachers;

To see no record of the sympathies which bind thee in communion with the good;

To be thrust from the feet of Him, who spake as never man

spake;

To have no avenue to heaven but the dim aisle of superstition; To live as an Esquimaux, in lethargy; to die as the Mohawk,

in ignorance:

O what were life, but a blank? what were death but a terror? What were man, but a burden to himself? what were mind,

but misery?

Yea, let another Omar burn the full library of knowledge, (22) And the broad world may perish in the flames, offered on the ashes of its wisdom!

OF WRITING.

THE pen of a ready writer, whereunto shall it be likened ? Ask of the scholar, he shall know,-to the chains that bind a Proteus:

Ask of the poet, he shall say,-to the sun, the lamp of

heaven;

Ask of thy neighbor, he can answer,-to the friend that telleth my thought:

The merchant considereth it well, as a ship freighted with

wares;

The divine holdeth it a miracle, giving utterance to the dumb.
It fixeth, expoundeth, and disseminateth sentiment;
Chaining up a thought, clearing it of mystery, and sending it
bright into the world.

To think rightly is of knowledge; to speak fluently, is of nature;

To read with profit, is of care; but to write aptly, is of prac

No talent among men hath more scholars and fewer masters: For to write is to speak beyond hearing, and none stand by

to explain.

To be accurate, write; to remember, write; to know thine own mind, write :

And a written prayer is a prayer of faith; special, sure, and to be answered.

Hast thou a thought upon thy brain, catch it while thou

canst;

Or other thoughts shall settle there, and this shall soon take wing:

Thine uncompounded unity of soul, which argueth and maketh it immortal,

Yieldeth up its momentary self to every single thought; Therefore, to husband thine ideas, and give them stability

and substance,

Write often for thy secret eye: so shalt thou grow wiser. The commonest mind is full of thoughts; some worthy of the

rarest;

And could it see them fairly writ, would wonder at its wealth.

O precious compensation to the dumb, to write his wants and wishes:

O dear amends to the stammering tongue, to pen his burning

thoughts!

To be of the college of Eloquence, through these silent sym

bols;

To pour out all the flowing mind without the toil of speech; To show the babbling world how it might discourse more

sweetly,

To prove that merchandise of words bringeth no monopoly of wisdom,

To take sweet vengeance on a prating crew, for the tongue's

dishonor,

By the large triumph of the pen, the homage rendered to a writing.